


The Light In The Bones

by Nospheratt



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang 2020, Also canon-typical, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff, Anxiety, Briefly Mentioned Suicidal Thoughts, Bucky deserves all the soft things, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Steve Rogers, Cuddling, Everyone is a good bro, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Implied Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Body Modification, PTSD, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Road Trip, Self-Acceptance, Sharing a Bed, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, cabin in the mountains, food as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27883402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nospheratt/pseuds/Nospheratt
Summary: A simple mission. Collect the soul, deliver it to the Master.Then the soul collector could go back to the Nothing.*After Bucky was captured, Hydra used magic to brainwash and transform him into a dullahan, a soul collector.He’s sent to kill a man and collect his soul. But he recognizes the soul; no other had ever shined brighter. He doesn’t know why, and yet he can't kill the man with the blue eyes and the scarred soul. During the Battle at the Triskelion, he saves the man from drowning and runs away.Two years later, Steve finds Bucky and convinces him to come to a safe house. The road trip takes them from Bucharest to Madrid while Bucky fights nightmares and PTSD, and ends up sleeping every night in Steve’s bed.It’s not his fault that his nightmares seem to be afraid of Steve’s slight snores. Or that he can only sleep well when he is at a get-elbowed-in-the-ribs distance.However, soon they discover something evil is hunting Bucky, trying to take him back to the darkness. Bucky is not sure he’s willing to risk Steve’s safety, no matter how much his very soul wants to stay by Steve’s side forever.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 82
Kudos: 56
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Empty Spaces, Abandoned Places

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I’ll tell the story of how the [Not Another Stucky Big Bang](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/NASBB2020) changed my life, but for today, here we go! Posting daily until we are done. 
> 
> This fic is way fluffier than it sounds. Don’t get me wrong; it’s dark and angsty as hell, but it’s also full of fluffy moments. It’s an angst & fluff milkshake, if you will. 😁
> 
> ### Thank You, Thank You, Thank You
> 
> My wonderful artists, [leathermouthed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/pseuds/leathermouthed) and [norsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie): I feel so lucky that you decided to take a chance on my story. Not only your art is amazing, it has been such a joy collaborating with you two. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy this final version of our project. 💗💗💗
> 
> Deep and wide and large thanks to [theemdash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theemdash/pseuds/theemdash) and [E_Greer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Greer/pseuds/E_Greer) for being fabulous beta readers, enablers and friends. 💙💙💙
> 
> [Meta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/need_more_meta/pseuds/need_more_meta), for being my joy when I most needed it. For understanding me, and gazing at the abyss by my side. Thank you. 💛💛💛

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of all things, the beginning of all things.

A simple mission. Collect the soul, deliver it to the Master.

Then the soul collector could go back to the Nothing.

*****

“The soul on the bridge, who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

“I knew him.” _I recognize that soul_. No other had ever shined brighter.

The scarred parts were not familiar, though.

*****

Everything hurt. The soul collector just wanted to rest.

*****

“You know me.” Blue eyes, so blue, the battered face translucent under the soul’s light.

“No, I don’t!” It hurt. His head hurt. Something else, sharp like a mirror shard, a memory, nested under his ribs. _Please stop._

“Bucky. You’ve known me your entire life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Shut up!” The soul collector didn’t have a name. He was a pile of bones, summoned from the Nothing to do the master’s bidding.

“I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend.”

“You’re my mission.” A blow. “You are—” Another. “—my—” And another. And another. _Please stop_. “—mission!”

“Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

The words echoed, exploded inside his skull. The Universe stood still for a moment, waiting. Waiting.

The soul collector stuttered between now and Before, trying to gather flecks of the past, vestiges of lost things, golden light, a soul he’d seen without scars.

How or when eluded him, but he knew this. The bones knew. The scars in this soul hadn’t been there before. Under the surface, he could _feel_ more than see…sadness. Longing.

Under his own ribs, an echo. Sadness. Longing.

Bewildered, he stretched out his hand. The soul shined brighter, the light blinding for a moment. Why? He didn’t know, didn’t want to see, _not allowed_ , a flash before—

Metal breaking, all around clanging and fire and sparks like the end of the world. Everything collapsed under them. The soul collector clung to a twisted beam, metal arm keeping him from dropping down to the river below.

The bright soul fell.

The world tilted on its axis. This was wrong. _He_ was the fallen one. He’d fallen to Hell, had seen the bright soul reach for him but it had been too late…Too late to save him.

Save him.

His true form flickered in and out, his very being changing, breaking, being remade as he watched the soul fall. Watched the body sink. Watched as he lost...something. Everything.

No. _No!_

He jumped.

  
**art** \- Bucky's true form flickering in and out by [norsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie)

The soul collector didn’t remember, didn’t understand, but he knew one thing. He wouldn’t let the man with the blue eyes and the bright soul die.

He’d crumble to dust, go back to the pile of bones and dirt from which he’d been created. He’d return permanently to the Nothing. Maybe he could finally rest.

But he wouldn’t deliver that soul. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos and all manner of screams, keyboard smashes and emojis are very much appreciated! 🙂
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	2. I Lost My Life, Forgot To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to make Steve understand.
> 
> “This is what I am, Steve.”
> 
> Closing his eyes, Bucky called his true form.

_Bucharest - Two Years Later_

It was over.

The end was written in the newsdealer’s eyes, plastered on the newspaper itself. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t done anything they accused him of. It was over; nothing to do except get his things and run, disappear.

The quiet, small space he’d carved for himself crumbled to dust, turned to ashes.

For a few moments each day, while he bought his plums, every time the fruit seller smiled at him, he could pretend to be human, to be free. During those moments he could forget, had forgotten, the last two years had been reprieve, not release.

The reprieve was over. Tugging his cap low over his face, making himself invisible in the shadows, he walked to his building. As soon as he stepped in front of the building's entrance, he felt it. The bones knew.

_Steve._

He wasn’t ready, not yet, maybe not ever. But he had to get his backpack, find out how long he had.

One tired step after the other, he climbed the stairs, a certainty nestled inside his chest. Steve wasn’t there to betray him. Steve would _never_ betray him.

He opened the door. Crossed the threshold. Steve stood across the room, reading one of his notebooks. What horrors hid inside that particular one, he couldn't have said. He wrote haphazardly, vomiting words and shattered thoughts that sometimes didn’t make sense even to him. His skull was filled with fragmented chaos and the endless void of what had been stolen from him—his past, his memories, his self.

Steve.

The holes left behind by the memories of Steve hurt most of all, an emptier empty, the deepest cut where he’d lost his very roots as a person.

Slowly, Steve turned to him. Dressed in uniform, ridiculous cowl jammed to his head, frisbee attached to his arm. Wary, not afraid; as if he were rescuing a scared, abandoned dog. “Do you remember me?”

 _Not all, not enough. But I can feel the places you used to occupy inside my soul, Steve. And it hurts._ “You’re Steve." He kept his gaze on the floor. If he faced Steve, the truth rattling around his teeth would pour out. “I read about you in a museum.”

Steady, sharp, Steve regarded him with those blue eyes that haunted his dreams. “You’re lying.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, swallowed a bitter, acrid laugh. “I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well, the people who think you did are coming here soon.” He glanced at the wall clock. “They’re not planning on taking you alive.”

“That’s smart.” It would be, if they could take him down. He’d offer himself, maybe. Maybe he’d ask to be put down, put out of this misery. If anyone _could_ take him down.

But no one could.

“We have about 20 minutes.” After carefully depositing the notebook back on the table, Steve removed the cowl. Longing was drawn in every tired curve of his face as he said, voice shaded with pleading, “This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

“Buck.”Everything in him curled and twisted, towards and away from the name, terror and yearning threaded together. “I’m not… I’m not the person you remember.”

“I don’t care. You’re still my friend. My…” Steve swallowed. “I still—”

“No.” _Not allowed_. “I’m not that person. I’m not even a person, Steve.”

Confusion washed Steve’s gaze in murky blue, but he stubbornly moved closer. “Bucky—”

Oh, how he wanted to be Bucky. Be this person Steve had loved, who Steve had mourned for decades, the person he’d been willing to die for. Be worthy of him, forge by his side a new path, away from Hell and oblivion, towards something new. Maybe he could be Bucky. Steve wanted him to be, had named him, and so he would be Steve’s Bucky.

_Not. ALLOWED._

“I said _no_.” Impotent fury fired through his veins, the injustice of what had been done to him, the destruction of everything he once was, the loss of…No, he couldn’t go there. _Not allowed_. “You need to leave.”

Glaring at him, Steve took the shield off his arm, let it fall to the floor. The most stubborn chin he’d ever seen went up. With a sigh, Bucky removed his cap and stuffed it in his back pocket, pushed his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. Of course Steve wouldn’t go without a fight.

“I’ll go,” Steve said, startling Bucky's eyes open in time to see his curt nod. Bucky tilted his head. What the fuck was happening? “If you come with me. I have a plan—but I need you to trust me. And we need to go. Soon.”

The bitter laugh escaped, after all. “They can’t do anything to me, Steve.”

“Buck, please. They’re going to execute you. I can’t let that happen. I won’t fail you again.” Unbearable grief clouded Steve’s expression, an echo from the helicarrier, a faint reverberation of his bloody, distorted face. Bucky wanted to claw his way back to Hell so he wouldn’t see it.

He had to make Steve understand.

“This is what I am, Steve.”

Closing his eyes, Bucky called his true form. The shadows whispered from his soul, seeped from his skin, enveloped him entirely.

As they retreated back inside him, his dullahan form was revealed.

*****

Steve froze, mouth hanging open, breath prisoner in the back of his throat. A black cloud of smoke, that’s what it looked like, emanated from… within Bucky? It covered his body entirely. Steve’s mind pinballed inside his skull, trying to find meaning in whatever was happening. The world fractured at the corners, cracks spiderwebbing dangerously towards the last shreds of his sanity.

A second later, the smoke disappeared. Bucky was still there, _his_ Bucky, he’d always be Steve’s Bucky. Steve would recognize him anywhere.

Always, ever. It didn’t matter if…if.

Bucky was a skeleton. Wearing the same sad jacket and ragged jeans, the same red shirt. Empty eye sockets turned to Steve, and it was weird how Steve could _feel_ Bucky’s gaze boring into him, all the way down to his soul, even though he…didn’t have eyes. _Jesus fucking Christ_.

Bucky stood there, waiting—for what? Did he think Steve would be scared of him, abandon him, run away? Steve wanted to destroy everything, break the world into pieces and throw it all at Bucky’s feet, an offering that would never, ever be enough to pay for his pain. His hand clenched reflexively, itching for the heft of the shield, his whole body craving an opportunity to deal damage and vengeance for Bucky.

Gritting his teeth, Steve took a step forward, towards him. “They did this to you.” Bucky’s head tilt conveyed, somehow, a _what-do-you-think_ eye roll, before turning downward, somber and…unsure. Steve shook his head. “I don’t care, Buck. I don’t care what you look like, you’re still my Bucky.”

Bucky recoiled, the stiff lines of his body radiating anger. His skeletal fingers closed in tight fists, balled at his hips as he turned away. His left hand’s bones seemed to be metal, like his human arm. What he must have suffered, horrors Steve couldn’t even fathom, even worse than what Steve had feared after discovering Bucky was alive and had been Hydra’s captive for seven decades.

“You can’t talk when you’re like this?” Bucky’s head shook a no, his back drooping to a sad note. Steve’s entire body convulsed, tensed, white-hot fury pouring into his veins, and he gritted his teeth. Rage burned so bright under his skin, he didn’t know how the entire Universe hadn’t exploded into flames. He stood perfectly still for a moment, getting himself under control, willing his voice to be gentle and not waver, before he spoke again. “That’s okay. Just listen, then.”

After a pause that lasted both five seconds and two glacial eras, Bucky’s shoulders went up and down, as if in a sigh. Steve knew that movement, even from behind. It was a sign of fond exasperation, of Bucky being willing to entertain Steve’s whims and flights of fancy. He’d known that movement since they were little, sitting on a building’s entrance stairs and comparing scraped knees.

“You pulled me from the river. I know you remember, at least enough to want me to keep breathing.”

Bucky's shoulders shuddered, this time more like a sob. Steve swallowed hard, an answering tightness crawling up his chest. His heart beating at his throat, scared to death of losing Bucky again, he pressed forward.

“I have a plan, a safe place where we can lay low for a while, figure out what you want to do. I’ll help you with anything you want, Buck. Just…” He scrunched his eyes closed, took a deep, ragged breath. “Please let me help you. _Please_.”

He’d drop to his knees and beg. He’d disappear, change his name, move to another continent or another planet. He would do _anything_ , if Bucky would have him. He just needed, _needed_ to be near, to make sure Bucky was safe and protected and cared for.

Seventy years of longing pushed him another step closer to Bucky’s back. Bucky hadn’t moved at all, eerily quiet, as if he weren’t a living person. Steve slowly lifted his hand and, even though he knew he shouldn’t, not without consent, touched Bucky’s shoulder. “Please, Bucky.”

A split second to register solid, sharp bones under his fingertips, through the fabric of his clothes, before Bucky turned around and pushed him away in a swift, lightning quick movement, and fell to his knees, clutching his skull, curled in on himself.

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Bucky trembled violently, bending forward until his forehead almost touched the floor. Cold sweat broke over Steve’s skin, his throat closed around shards of glass. Had he caused this?

 _No time to panic, Rogers_. Inhaling deeply, he steadied his breath, Bucky’s voice echoing in his ears across seven decades, an ocean and a continent, _c’mon, Stevie, breathe in, breathe out for me._ He dropped to his knees in front of him, as close as he dared, careful to give Bucky space.

“Bucky. Can you hear me?”

No acknowledgment. Bucky rocked back and forth, back and forth, bone and metal fingers digging into the back of his skull. Steve had the distinct feeling he was screaming. He desperately wanted to hug, to hold, offer comfort, but didn’t touch Bucky again, lest he made this, whatever _this_ was, worse.

“What can I do? Bucky. Please.” He scrambled through his fucking _great strategic mind_ trying to find anything useful. “Can you turn back? Please come back.” Hot tears blurred his vision.

Bucky turned his head to Steve, the first indication since he’d dropped to the floor that he could hear Steve or was even aware Steve was there. Straightening, trembling, he struggled to kneel upright. Stretched his arms back and tossed his head, as if in a roar, jaw open wide. Black smoke seeped from his mouth and enveloped him again. A blink later, Bucky appeared back in his human form and collapsed, half over Steve. Ragged breathing, but he _was_ breathing, not screaming. That was something.

Steve hoped it was something.

A sob broke free from Steve’s throat, scraping everything in its way out. “Can I hug you?”

Eyes closed, Bucky nodded, very slightly, but he did nod. Carefully, Steve cradled him to his chest and rested his cheek on top of Bucky’s head, closed his own eyes. Relief cracked him open and raw, no barrier between him and what wasn’t him.

Seventy years later, he was holding Bucky again. Bucky was alive, warm, in his arms. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else had ever really mattered.

“Are you okay?” Steve whispered.

“No.” So quiet, only supersoldier ears could have heard.

“What can I do?”

Bucky gave another slight shake of his head, dragged himself across the floor, an almost non-movement that brought him closer to Steve as he curled his arms over his own stomach and chest, and turned towards Steve, making himself a little ball.

Again, Steve had to scrunch his eyes closed and breathe, forestalling thoughts of bloody violence with Bucky’s presence, his nearness. He _would_ keep his shit together, he _would_ take care of Bucky. “Okay,” he said, softly. “Okay, Buck. I got you.”

Under his cheek, he felt his hair, smooth and soft.

*****

Swimming in pain, vestigial panic and the comfort of Steve’s solid arms around him, Bucky tried to make sense of what had happened.

Once he’d assumed his true form, he…he saw Steve’s soul, translucent over his body. Steve was like the sun, Bucky's sun, pure light and goodness. Bucky had missed it so much, he could have cried.

It was the first time he’d seen Steve’s soul since the helicarrier. He’d had to restrain himself from stepping forward, dropping to his knees, begging Steve for absolution, forgiveness, redemption. He’d burn himself alive in that sun, if he could. If he was allowed.

And Steve had said _you’re still my Bucky_ , like a blow, like cutting him open, like nothing. Not knowing that Bucky—what had once been Bucky—had been irreversibly corrupted, mutilated, destroyed. Nothing in him was where it should be, not his heart, or his soul, or his bones.

This creature was not Bucky. He wore Bucky’s remains, carried within the remains of what Steve had been—and somehow still was—to him, what remained from them both, and it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for anything, except for it to hurt, to be pain and scars and broken wings.

Steve wanted him, wanted to save him. The fool.

He’d touched Bucky’s shoulder. That single whisper of contact had almost made his resolve falter, his determination to stay away, to protect Steve from himself and everything he was, the monster, the darkness.

And then…

Tendrils, viscous, putrefied, had touched Bucky’s mind. Searching, crawling, black and oily and he’d have vomited, the nausea strong and vivid as if he had a stomach.

_No. No. No._

Fingers digging into his consciousness, crawling over his skull, thrusting into his eyes and his mouth. So many, overpowering him, more, another and another, they… they wanted to drag him back into the pits of Hell. N _o no no no_ —

“Bucky. Can you hear me?” The light weaved words into the air. “Can you turn back?”

Back, he wanted to go back. To sunshine and life and away from this nauseating, soul destroying _thing_. Time stretched, contracted, darkness rising up in a fog around his knees.

The tendrils didn’t make sound as they consumed him. Everything was silence and terror and pain.

“Please come back.”

Back, turn back.

 _Back_. _Bucky_. Who the hell was Bucky.

He didn’t remember. Not how. Not why. _Turn back_. He wanted to turn back. But this was his true form. Something was tearing his soul apart, dragging him down, away, like before…

“Bucky, please.” The light had weaved a name for him, a calling. Bucky.

Bucky. He could be Bucky. For a while anyway, go back to the sunshine.

Almost impossibly, he straightened up, spine rigid. The sun stood by him, waiting for him to return.

The sun. Steve.

 _Steve_.

He could go back to Steve.

Soundlessly, he screamed, letting the shadows bloom from his mouth and take him back to his human form.

Silence. Stillness. The tendrils disappeared. Dimly, he registered Steve’s nearness, warmth. _Safe_. His muscles gave out, he collapsed, infinitely tired, half over powerful legs dressed in dark blue.

Something strangled came out of Steve’s chest. “Can I hug you?”

Nodding was all he could do. Steve embraced him, as if he hadn’t seen what he truly was, as if Bucky hadn’t vomited darkness a moment ago. As if he didn’t care about any of it.

Tired, so tired. Bucky remembered in another life he would have called Steve a dumbass. Would have berated him for putting himself at risk. Wouldn’t have allowed him to get this close, to touch him and be near…whatever it was that had taken hold of him.

The Bucky from the past was so much stronger than _this_ Bucky, the monster, the son of darkness. This creature that belonged in the Abyss.

Hoping it was enough, he shook his head, dragged himself half a centimeter closer to Steve, the sun, the light that illuminated the Universe and made everything worth existing.

The whole Universe existed solely because _Steve_ existed, to be around him, to be path for his steps, and Steve didn’t realize. Steve just _was_ , exactly like the sun and the brightest stars.

Curling in on himself, he sought refuge inside the warmth of his sun. Once again it made room for him, made harbor, saying, “Okay, Buck. I got you.”

The sun that was Steve rested his cheek over Bucky’s head, threading soft caresses on his hair, his back, soothing, and that was it. Bucky lost the battle.

He would do whatever Steve asked, everything be damned.

  
**art** \- Dark tendrils and Steve's light by [norsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie)


	3. I’m Wearing Your Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bike ride. A meeting with the team. Truth, shadows and light, and Bucky makes a new choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the real Chapter 3 - for some reason, I skipped right over it and published Chapter 4 last time. My apologies for the discombobulation of the story. Hope you can enjoy it anyway. 💛
> 
> In my defense, I've been suffering from vertigo the last few weeks, which means dizziness and brain fog all the time. 😁

An eternity later, a blink later, Steve broke the silence. “We need to go, Buck. They’re coming.”

Bucky wanted to stay there forever, forget that there was anything else anywhere. Entangled, close, so close, he shouldn’t even be touching Steve at all. And yet, he stole another moment, and another, telling himself this was the last one. And the last one. All lies, he knew. He pilfered another moment.

_Not allowed._

Steve was right, he needed to go, before the police arrived. He had no idea of what _he_ may do to them, if those…things took control of him. Whatever the fuck it was, he could sense its malevolence like a distant storm, hovering far on the horizon, just beyond his vision. Coming for him.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve shuddered, tightened his arms around Bucky an infinitesimal fraction. “You’ll come with me?”

“Yes.” Shame crawled over his bones as he fought the urge to squeeze back, to nuzzle his cheek into Steve’s solid chest. He should get his stuff and get as far away from Steve as he could. Disappear again. Protect him, even if it’d break his heart.

But Bucky was weak.

“Okay.” Steve nodded. “Alright.” Slowly, he retreated, let his arms fall by his sides. Bucky could _feel_ his reluctance to let go, a mirror of his own foolishness. “Let’s go.” Steve gracefully unfolded his body to stand over Bucky, looking down on him with his face painted in weary hope, bright like an actual fucking sun, hand extended in offering.

Bucky only had metal bones, cold darkness, broken wings. Broken like shards of glass, broken like scars and old pain.

But he took it, Gods forgive him, Bucky took Steve’s hand and dreamed of a time when he could fly. When Steve's smile was sunshine and light and his laughter diaphanous, ethereal.

He missed it terribly, looking up from the Abyss and remembering sunlight. This sunlight that found him, that never forgot, that brought him back from the darkness even now.

This sunlight dimmed by scars and fear, yet still so infinitely bright.

As Steve pulled him up, something on Bucky’s face said it was okay to crush him to Steve’s chest, because that’s what he did, using a force both of them knew could never be withstood by anyone else.

“I’ve missed you so much, Buck.” Steve’s whisper grazed his ear, summoning a wave of longing that snaked up Bucky’s spine.

For a second, only a second, he allowed himself to take a deep breath and fill himself with Steve, closing his eyes, pretending…pretending.

Then he disentangled himself, nodded. “Yes.”

And Steve’s face said he understood.

Swallowing hard, Bucky went to the spot near the door and punched the floor open. Steve didn’t jump, he was too stubborn for that, but he did arch a brow. The disapproving brow of justice and righteousness never had any effect on Bucky, not even back when he was a whole person and had things like _feelings_.

“That doesn’t work on me, pal,” Bucky said as he pulled his backpack from the hiding spot under the floorboards. The disappointed face of justice and righteousness made an appearance. “And neither does that.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Steve huffed, half-exasperation, half-laugh, both coalescing into a frown when Bucky hooked the backpack strap over his shoulder. “Is that all?”

Shame gurgled in Bucky’s gut. He looked around, took in the meager crumbs that made up his life. Nothing he particularly wanted to keep, nothing of personal value, nothing with any meaning.

Nothing.

Even the backpack was meaningless beyond practicalities. It was a survival bag; money, documents, a change of clothes. A few knives and guns. Other odds and ends that could be useful when you’re an internationally wanted assassin on the run.

It could have belonged to any internationally wanted assassin on the run.

Bucky was a ghost, a shadow, almost literally. He shrugged.

“What about these?” Steve had walked to the fridge while Bucky surveyed his pathetic domain, had picked up another of his notebooks. “You should…” He bit his lip, _blushed_. Bucky narrowed his eyes. What was this? “You shouldn’t leave them behind, where anyone can find them. Isn’t there, like, sensitive information here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.” Those notebooks were windows into his fucked up brain. He didn’t want to read the shit he’d vomited onto them. He doubted anyone would be able to understand any of it anyway.

“Would…” Steve looked down, tightened his fingers on the battered journal. “Can I… can I take them?”

“Why?” Bucky scrunched up his nose.

“I don’t want anyone else to get them.” His blue gaze turned up to Bucky’s face, pleading. “Please?”

The Captain America’s righteousness and justice shtick didn’t work on him, but by the mists of Tír na nÓg, he was biologically unable to deny anything to Steve Rogers. Bucky threw his hands up. “Whatever.”

“Thank you.” Steve _smiled_ , the big lug. As if Bucky had granted him a bounty. “Do you have another backpack or something?”

“No, I missed that class in assassin school.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes mimicked his frisbee.

“It’s a joke, Steve.” Shaking his head, Bucky opened a cupboard and retrieved his other backpack, the decoy. “Here.”

Even discombobulated, Steve was efficient. He made short work of stuffing the notebooks in the backpack while he ordered Bucky around, making him collect his few clothes and any remotely personal stuff, including his used toothbrush.

Bucky didn’t understand _why_ it mattered to Steve, but he knew it was easier—and it would get things done faster—if he followed along without arguing.

Ten minutes later, they were flying down the stairs.

At the street, Steve nodded to the side alley. “My bike is here.”

 _Oh shit_. Something stirred low in Bucky’s belly, a primal memory that didn’t make it all the way to conscious thought. _Trouble_.

As Steve threw a leg over the bike, straddling the powerful machine, a slick, graceful predator beckoning him with a head tilt, Bucky understood. Trouble.

Without thought, he plastered himself to Steve’s back. Squeezed his thighs around Steve’s as his big, warm hand grabbed Bucky’s knee for a moment in a possessive gesture. The engine rumbling to life covered their shudder—he felt Steve shaking the same as him—and they were off.

Steve drove like a madman, zigzagging between cars, sliding down narrow curves, taking them away from the city as fast as he could. Bucky tightened his arms around Steve’s waist, sharing heat and heartbeats, enjoying the play of muscle under his fingers.

He wanted to roar with joy, exhilaration, with _being alive_. Hair wild in the wind, he wouldn’t have been surprised if his soul burst from his back like wings, to fly into the sky above.

He’d crawled through the darkness and had finally found light, a way out from the catacombs where he’d been living for the last seventy years.

 _Not allowed_.

Gritting his teeth, forehead against Steve’s spine, he closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve any of it.

Didn’t deserve, but oh how he wanted.

Without his say so, his arms came up to Steve’s chest in a hug. He burrowed his face on the solid expanse of Steve's back, clinging to Steve as if he was his very life.

Which was the truth.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with that.

Steve put one arm over Bucky’s, threaded their fingers together. Biting his lip to keep a wounded noise prisoner behind his teeth, Bucky squeezed him even tighter as Steve stepped on the gas.

Only when they stopped under a bridge, on the farthest suburbs of town, Bucky realized he hadn’t even asked where the fuck Steve was taking him.

He hoarded yet another instant of Steve in his arms, before hopping down. A million questions dripped from Steve's gaze, a visible weight on his shoulders. Bucky shook his head. Now was not the time.

It would never be the time, not ever again. _Not allowed_.

*****

Steve didn’t say anything. If Bucky didn’t want to talk about… _them_ right now, he’d respect that.

There would be time for that later. They’d be on the road for a few days, and Steve hoped they’d have at least a few months of peace at the cabin.

Hope, a bright thing that filled him like helium, made him light, almost transparent. Bucky had accepted his help. The way he’d held Steve, his arms impossibly tight, binding them together. Saying with his body and his eyes _I remember. I care. I want._

And Steve couldn’t help but hope and hope and hope.

“Now what?” Bucky asked gruffly.

“Sam, Nat and Clint are coming.” He smiled, brimming with gratitude because the team, his friends, his _family_ had his back. He could rely on them. “They’re bringing everything we need to go.”

“Go where, exactly? I can’t believe—” Bucky leaned on the bike’s seat, crossing his ankles as he shook his head and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Tell me what’s your dumbass plan.”

“Hey—”

“Look pal, I don’t remember a lot, but I remember _very clearly_ how your plans are usually—” He began ticking his fingers off. “Dumb, reckless, dangerous, self-righteous, half-assed and…” He tapped his chin, turning his face towards the sky and blinked twice. Turned back to Steve, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, yes. Did I mention dumb?”

The tirade was so very _Bucky_ , a breeze bringing scents of home and belonging, Steve couldn’t even be offended. He beamed. “I’ve missed you so much, Buck.”

“Yeah, bet it was hard not having anyone in the last seventy years to tell you how much of a dumbass you are.” Bucky studied the ground as if he could see something riveting down there, his face partially hidden behind his hair, the strands tangled and wind wild.

 _Want_ suddenly curled around Steve’s fingers, memories of burying them in Bucky’s curls, taking a handful and pulling—

Both of them turned when steps resonated from the street corner. The team approached with sure strides, open posture and friendly smiles that didn’t fool Steve, and certainly not Bucky.

“Except he did,” Nat said. “I’ve told Steve many, _many_ times how much of a dumbass and a pain in the ass he is.” Her eyes flitted to Bucky, lips curled in a curious tilt, imperceptible for anyone who didn’t know her well.

“Yeah, man, it’s not our fault he. _Does. Not. Listen_ ,” Sam quipped, putting emphasis on every word. Smiling, he clapped Steve’s back. “How are you doing, Cap?”

“Everything okay so far.” Smiling widely, Steve tugged him for a hearty, bone-creaking hug. “I’m glad to see you, guys.”

“Really.” Clint bumped Steve’s shoulder in greeting, hands resting near his hips, weapons conspicuously stashed. Openly hostile towards Bucky, shoulders stiff, lips pursed.

As Steve exchanged hugs with Nat and Clint, a thick cloud of wariness and tension emanated from Bucky, a suffocating fog covering the ground, snaking around their legs even as he remained casually leaning against the bike, not moving a muscle. His gaze darted between them and the road, the buildings, mapping escape routes and places where he could take cover.

“Hey,” Steve said softly as he approached Bucky again, as close as he dared. All his being ached to brush his hair away from his face, put his arms around him, pull him to his chest. “We’re safe. I trust them with my life.”

“What about mine,” Bucky muttered, low enough that only Steve would hear, his attention locked on the trio standing a few meters away. Then he looked up, a hint of fear lurking behind his stony expression. “What about theirs, Steve? Are you willing to put _their_ lives in my hands, after what you saw?”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone.” Steve clasped his shoulders, squeezed gently. “I know you. You’re not a monster,” he whispered, because that was what Bucky was thinking. That was his fear, Steve knew to the marrow of his bones.

“Steve…” His face softened for a fraction of a second, then Bucky reared up, sidestepped away in a jerky motion. “Whatever,” he grumbled.

“Can we please get this over with?” Clint’s sharp words sliced the silence that followed. “I’d like to get the fuck out of here sooner rather than later.” He crossed his arms, glowering.

Nat graced them with one of her Olympic-level eye-rolls. “Don’t mind the grumpy hawk, he didn’t get pizza for breakfast today.” She put a light hand over Clint’s forearm, then visibly applied pressure until he yelped and jerked away.

Clint rubbed his arm, grumbling, “Nat—”

“Behave.” The diagonal tilt of her head promised unspeakable torture.

Sadness filled Steve’s chest, pressed his shoulders down. He understood Clint’s wariness, he did. But if the circumstances were different, in another life, Bucky and Clint would get along like a house on fire.

His heavy, tired legs carried him back to the others, to once again form the semi-circle they knew so well from innumerable missions, catastrophes and Universes. “It’s okay, Clint, I promise. Trust me.”

“I do.” He didn’t need to say _but not him_.

“You should tell them,” Bucky interrupted, walking forward to stand by Steve’s side. He stared at each of them in turn, challenge in his stance, determination written in the straight line of his spine.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Nat could get intel, may even know something. “Are you sure?”

Bucky shrugged. “ _Someone_ should know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Clint opened his mouth, but Nat flung a 47 G-force side-eye his way. He huffed and closed it with a click.

“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Steve explained what he’d seen, leaving out the screaming, the falling, the way Bucky had struggled. They hadn’t had time to talk about it, and it seemed…personal. Private. When he finished—he didn’t know much, in the end—they all turned to Bucky.

Shoving his hands in his jacket’s pockets, Bucky hunched, gazing up from under his lashes in a stony challenge. “What?”

Sam’s body coiled, sharpened, ready to spring his wings and kick ass. Crossing his arms over his solid chest, he planted his feet. His expression remained friendly, however. “Barnes—is it okay if I call you Barnes?” At Bucky’s nod-slash-shrug, he went on. “C’mon. You need to talk. What the fuck are you, for starters.”

“Soul collector. A living pile of bones.” Bucky inclined his head slightly, the suddenly ashen tone of his face stark behind the dark curtain of his hair. “Hydra sent me to kill people. Collect their souls and deliver them to be…used.”

“Souls.” Nat’s brows arranged themselves up, moving graciously to finish with a _really?_ flourish.

“Yes.” His back was so rigid it could have been carved in stone, his face beautiful and terrible, sculpted lines of sorrow. “Souls are as real as flesh and blood. Like flesh and blood, they have value. Can be taken, sold, bought. Used.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” His lips crumpled sideways, a pale, thin line, as his shoulders hunched even more, drawing a shape Steve knew too well—the familiar weight of shame, guilt, regret. Bucky kicked a small rock. “Nothing good.”

“And you still did it,” Clint spat.

Before Clint even reached the last _t_ , before Steve could draw air to intervene and defend Bucky, Bucky straightened, shoulders back, chin high.

“Not by choice, asshole!” He inhaled a huge breath, brushed his hair impatiently from his face. “Do you even know—” He huffed a mirthless, derisive laugh, shaking his head. “Of course not. None of you know. How they twisted and cut and mutilated my _soul_ , until I was just a thing, a barely-sentient thing they could force to do whatever they wanted.” He stepped forward, facing Clint head-on. “Can you guess how much it hurts to have a piece of your soul carved out of you? _Literally_ carved out of your fucking being?”

Clint’s mouth moved, insinuated words but nothing came out.

Steve contracted his fingers like a vise, nails cutting his palms. He bit his lip, seeking blood, to ground the rage coursing through his body, to stop his arms from reaching for Bucky. He needed to let _Bucky_ say his piece, speak his truth. Stand for himself.

“A human would die from the pain alone,” Sam said, his voice trembling.

“Yes.” Bucky tilted his head as they all turned to Sam.

“You’re a dullahan. I—” Sucking a choked breath, Sam scrubbed both hands down his face. It took two hard swallows for him to continue. “I know others. “

“There…are… _others_?” Bucky’s astonishment was undiluted hurt, horror and pain distilled into three words.

“Not like you,” Sam rushed to explain, voice rough. “They collect souls from the dead and guide them to…how is it they call it. The other side. Something like that. They’ve told me it’s the next step, after you die.” He blew out a slow breath, gaze brimming with emotion, sympathy, maybe even pity, as he faced Bucky. “They don’t take the souls to be used…and they don’t kill people.”

“Of fucking course not.” Bucky turned and started walking away. Steve thought of following, but he muttered, “Need a minute. Not going far.”

“Okay.” Defeated, Steve bowed his head, gaze landing on his boots, soul sad and gray as the pavement beneath them. Wishing Bucky would allow him to comfort him, be there for him.

A small, sure hand landed on his shoulder.

“This is a lot for us, imagine what it must be for him.” Nat’s soft tone warmed him. She had his back. She’d extend her patience and understanding to Bucky, even if she wasn’t really sure of him. “Give him time, Steve. Don’t go rushing in just yet.”

Caught off guard, Steve barked a startled laugh. “Am I that obvious, huh?”

“Only for those in the know, Cap. The know that you’re a dumbass with zero chill.” Sam pursed his lips wryly, shaking his head slowly. “More accurately, negative chill.”

Even as he laughed with them, Steve had to swallow down a sniffle. After losing his mom, and then Bucky, after waking from the cold to find himself still frozen inside, living in a soulless world where he’d also lost the Howlies and Peggy, finding another family had seemed a ludicrous concept, a delirious dream that only made everything hurt even more.

And yet. He’d found family a second time. He’d never know what he’d done to be so lucky, to deserve such treasure twice, but here they were. For him, and for Bucky, despite everything. He felt his face soften, and smiled, grateful and touched. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, guys.”

“Be buried under the ocean in a federal prison?” Laughing her musical, understated laugh, Nat elbowed him in the ribs, making him flinch. “We love you too, Captain Zero Chill, sir.”

Clint mimicked a statue, gaze hard and flinty. Steve decided to let _that_ issue lie for now and asked Sam, “Can you tell me anything else? Anything that can help Bucky?”

“I don’t know, man.” Sam put his hands on his hips, face turning pensive. A hint of sadness clung to his voice. “I don’t know much. They aren’t allowed to tell humans anything, they can be severely punished and even killed…well, beyond killed.”

“Beyond killed.” Nat had the most expressive, language-rich eyebrows Steve had ever seen. They probably spoke dialects. And tongues.

“Yeah, like. You die, your soul goes to the other side, the place where souls are supposed to go, right? And I don’t know if you live…well, if you’re dead happily ever after, or you come back, or whatever. I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “But if a dullahan fucks it up bad enough—they have all these rules—they, their soul, is destroyed. Kaput, you are no more. Like, at all. Obliterated from existence.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve muttered. “That is—” Deep, existential horror gripped him by the scruff and tossed him about. Finding out souls were real, could be taken, stolen, hurt, was terrifying enough. Knowing you could also be, as Sam so eloquently put it, _obliterated from existence_ …He shuddered, squeezed the back of his neck, ran a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

“About like that, yes.” Nodding, Sam shuddered as well. Maybe existential dread shudders were contagious, like yawns.

Or maybe it was just the existential dread.

“How do you even know anything at all?” Nat tilted her head. Curious, not suspicious. Years later, Steve was still amazed and beyond happy that Nat trusted Sam as much as Steve did.

Or as much as Nat trusted anyone, which was still saying a lot.

To be fair, there was one person she trusted with all her being. Said person stood not two meters from them. Brooding or thinking about pizza or calculating snipers’ trajectories, Steve couldn’t say. He hoped Nat did, and if Bucky was in danger, she’d alert Steve somehow.

Even though he doubted anything Clint could do would kill Bucky, he could be hurt in his human form. And he did feel pain.

Steve almost growled at the thought of Bucky being in pain. _Keep it together, Rogers_. Where _was_ Bucky? Steve turned around, trying to find his wayward Bucky, but he was nowhere to be seen. Fear clenched around his legs, made him heavy, cumbersome. _Please don't leave me, give me a chance_.

Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky_ , thundered through him. Suddenly, he realized there was something inside his chest—a thread, a filament, a figment of his imagination, perhaps—where he _felt_ Bucky. He widened his eyes. Closed them, focusing on the feeling. Unequivocally, Bucky was near. Steve felt him as electricity in the air, as he could have felt a storm approaching, changes in the air, ozone and the first hints of petrichor.

He did not know what the fuck was that, but it calmed him, settled him back into his bones. Bucky was near. He would come back; he’d promised.

In the meantime, Steve could get his ass in gear and find out something to help him. His focus zoomed back to the conversation, to find Sam, Nat and even Clint, watching his face with various degrees of amusement.

“Back with us, Captain Zero Chill?” Nat asked, her eyebrows and the corners of her eyes working together to make a _very_ good impression of a smirk.

“Yes, sorry.” Heat climbed high on his cheeks. “Go on,” he said, feeling content with that small thread tangled around his heart, telling him Bucky hadn’t abandoned him. “Please.”

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Sam intoned exaggeratedly, flapping his arms around and bending in a ridiculous bow. “I saved one of them. It was like, do you know that Headless Horseman shit?” They all nodded. Including Clint, who’d walked closer, unable to disguise his interest. “So. I was in the desert with the pararescue team, doing reconnaissance of a supposedly abandoned place. Looking for survivors. And there I found.” Sam swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A walking skeleton. Walking. Without a fucking head.”

“That’s—” Steve took a deep breath. He could do this. For Bucky, he would keep his shit together. He would find words. “That’s what Bucky showed me.” Three heads turned sharply to him. Even Nat looked surprised, mildly horrified. “But, he had his head on, thank fuck.”

“I’ll say,” Sam muttered, scrunching his eyes closed for a moment, face wrinkled. He put his hands on his waist, maybe trying to find balance. Steve grasped his forearm and squeezed, and Sam looked at him, nodded, gratitude stamped on his steady gaze. “It’s something I wish I’d never seen, _ever_ , in the history of ever. And as much as I’d love to traumatize y’all, long story short: someone had stolen the dullahan's head to try and control them. Me and—” His throat and mouth worked soundlessly. Then, “Riley. We helped them. Recover it.”

“Oh, Sam.” Tears bloomed in Steve’s eyes. Squeezing Sam’s arm again, gently, he blinked rapidly. Riley had never come back from that tour.

“Yeah.” Sam looked around. “You know what, this sidewalk looks mighty comfortable.” He half-sat, half-collapsed to the ground, and hugged his knees, gaze lost in the horizon. “Riley. He—” Sam’s deep voice wavering painfully.

Steve sat down by him, giving him a sideways hug. “We know. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay, Sam.” Nat folded herself by Sam’s opposite side, threading her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder, as Clint sat down cross-legged in front of him, in the deserted street, and put a comforting hand around Sam’s calf. “You really don’t have to—”

“But I do. I want to.”

“Go on, then,” Nat murmured softly. “We’re here for you.”

“Thanks. I...I appreciate it more than I can say.” He closed his eyes, turned his face up, away from them, towards the clouds lazily sleeping on the blue autumn sky. “Riley died out there.” Something like a sob bubbled up his throat and took the shape of words. “But he didn’t stay dead.”

“Oh Lord,” Clint gritted out, squeezing Sam’s calf.

“Wyn—the dullahan, that’s their name—said they could save him. If Riley wanted, he could become a dullahan and…not die. Or die, but still be here. I don’t know how it works.”

“Like Bucky.” Steve didn’t have breath on his lungs, his heart refused to beat, his blood turned to lead.

“No.” The sharp denial rung across the street. Sam opened his eyes, face upturned, but tears tracked down his cheeks anyway. “Riley did it by choice. He chose to live. He wasn’t tortured.”

“Why didn’t he come back with you, then?” Clint asked the question that had been floating between lines.

“He also chose to…be without me. Said he was dead, his life was over. Said I should forget him and move on.” A sob, and another. “As if I ever could.”

Simultaneously, they leaned towards Sam and squeezed him tightly. Clint closed the circle, putting his arms around the three of them, and they let Sam cry for a while.

When he came up for air, he hiccuped. “I’ve never been able to cry like that before, openly. To tell anyone what really happened.”

“Why not?” Steve frowned. “You could have told us.”

“I didn’t know you guys back then, did I?” Sam shrugged, bowed his head to his knees. “And after so long… There was never a reason.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Steve’s spine crackled with anger. How lonely Sam must have felt, watching Riley’s family mourn, his comrades grieve, unable to say anything. He wished he’d been there to help with Sam’s burden. To ease Sam’s pain. “I’m so, _so_ sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry you went through this alone.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sam wiped tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, heaving a deep, weary sigh. “Things are what they are.”

“Can we contact him?”

“No.” The single word contained a Greek tragedy. “I…when we...He erased any traces that could lead to him. Cut all ties.”

Gritting his teeth, Steve closed his eyes. So close, so far. Impossible. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy, for any of them?

“If he is, well, not dead, he can be found.” Nat pushed Sam sideways with her shoulder, playfully, jostling Steve too.

“I guess.” Sam pushed back, shoulders curled inward, a sad parenthesis around his heart. His gaze unfocused. “Wyn, they told me they missed Cologne. The desert too dry for their taste or something like that.” He straightened up. “They sounded nostalgic, maybe…?”

“Better than nothing.” Nat nodded, calculating, gears visibly turning. She loved having a target, a mission to focus her rage on. She'd told Steve once it was either that, or _drown under the weight of all the crap we carry inside, Steve_. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks. I—” Steve grabbed his forehead and pressed his fingers into his temples. Nothing useful came out except a frustrated, impotent sigh. “Thank you. I’ll let you know if we can think of anything else.”

“Likewise,” Sam said, cheeks reddened, eyes puffy. Steve threw his arms around him again, pouring warmth and gratitude into the hug. Sam clung to him just as fiercely.

“C’mon, let’s get going.” Nat stood up, slick and fluid as a fountain. “We’ve been here too long.”

Clint, already in a crouch, sprang back. Steve and Sam fought gravity, two graceless tanks. At least they were strong, though Steve had to admit Sam’s stiffness was probably caused by grief and tiredness.

“Yeah, time to go.” Steve poked at the thread around his heart, tugged. How, he didn’t fucking know. But clearly he did _something_ , which found a blob of annoyance at the other end.

Like darkness coming to life, Bucky peeled himself from the shadows of the closest building. Eyes narrowed, almost the Winter Soldier murder glare. “Stop it,” he growled.

“Stop what?” Steve tugged again, surprised. Wasn’t it a figment of his imagination?

“I don’t fucking know.” Voice even lower, glare turned feral. “But _stop it_.”

“What’s going on?” Nat’s hands flowed to her thighs, ready to take out whatever weapons she’d stashed there. Clint scanned the perimeter, Sam closed his fists, squared his shoulders. The team getting ready for battle.

“Nothing, sorry.” Steve grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed, grimacing a sheepish smile. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“You were not.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, let it hide his face, dim his glare a little.

“Steve. Explain. Now.” Nat’s tone could have felled mountains.

“It’s...private.” He ducked his head, cheeks flaming. “You don’t need to worry about it, I swear.”

Sam covered his eyes with one hand, shaking the other in front of him as if to ward Steve off. “Alright, that’s it, are we done? ‘Cause I don’t wanna hear about your _private_ stuff, Cap.”

“Gods above and all of Medusa’s teeth,” Bucky ground out from behind his hair.

They all turned to him.

“That’s some creative swearing,” Clint said, a hint of admiration poking through in the first time he addressed Bucky without animosity.

“It would sound even better in Russian.” Nat grinned, her brows animated in cheeky lines. “Do you speak Russian?”

Bucky’s head came up, disbelief in his gaze as he scanned each one of them up and down. Assessing. “You are the people who saved the planet from being destroyed.” Putting his hands on his hips, he shook his head once, as if to dislodge a bothersome insect. “You.”

“More than once!” Clint said cheerfully, pumping a fist up before sobering. He tried unsuccessfully to glare and settled back on a proud smile.

“We had help.” Nat reconfigured her face in a dreamy expression. “Thor looks really inspiring in battle, all sweaty and roughed up.”

“He really does,” Clint agreed, nodding emphatically and making googly eyes. “The way he can throw that hammer…” He sighed wistfully.

“Yeah, we had help. But _we_ did most of the work,” Sam piped up, smugness smudged all over his face, followed by ten shades of deep betrayal. “And yet, they declared us _traitors_ right after,” he huffed. “Heroes don’t get any gratitude nowadays.”

With each new word, Bucky’s eyes got bigger and wider, until Steve was afraid they’d fall out of his head. Steve had to use all his strength to keep a straight face. His own eyes were about to pop out from all the air he was holding in.

“Are they fucking with me,” Bucky asked him, tilting his head to an extremely annoyed bevel and crossing his arms.

“Not really.” The words blew out in a wheeze, exploding like a champagne cork. Steve felt just as bubbly. Bucky, his Bucky, here, talking, standing, alive. His best friends in the world (and all the other worlds, really) had his back, stood by his side, no matter what.

Happiness crackled in his chest. Each of them carried the burdens of multiple Universes on their shoulders, enough trauma and pain to obliterate a small country inside each of their hearts. To see them laughing, having fun…it was happiness.

And Bucky was having fun too. Was fucking with them a little too, playing up the Winter Soldier persona. To protect himself, to keep people away—that part wasn’t fun, wasn’t happy, but they’d work on that. Steve would help Bucky find people he could trust, people who’d have his back.

Would help him see those people stood right in front of him, messing with him. A little.

*****

“Need a minute. Not going far,” Bucky told Steve and walked away, disappeared into the shadows. Somehow, everything in him _hurt_ , from his bones to the core of his soul.

To speak of what he was, what he’d done…the miserable truth had tasted bitter on the back of his throat, acrid with shame, and his stomach had revolted. Trying to control himself, Bucky had shoved his hands into the depths of his pockets, contemplating for a moment the serious prospect of covering Steve's shoes with bile. He hadn’t retched, but it was a near thing.

And then...Others. There were others, except. Those others hadn’t been tortured, mutilated, distorted into a grotesque _thing_.

They didn’t kill. They offered service.

 _Bucky_ was the killer, the monster. It must be _in him_ , come from within, the twisted ugly thing that killed people and stole their souls.

For a moment, he’d almost believed he could perhaps be saved, maybe be worth a damn. When Steve looked at him, he believed, he forgot where he belonged, what he was: abyss, darkness, lonely. Evil.

Those things that had reached for him, tried to devour him, were probably just the darkest part of himself, his own damned soul finally consuming what was left of… not darkness. He should leave, should save Steve and his friends from himself, go away.

Kill the monster. It would be fair, a sort of poetic justice. He’d taken the lives of so many, it would be only right that he took his own.

One solitary act of kindness, justice; to rid the world of himself. He was a thing, he was nothing, not important. He didn’t matter, nobody would miss him. Steve may be sad for a while, but he’d forget eventually. He’d mourn a bit, maybe as he’d mourn a good dog. But Bucky wasn’t even a good dog.

A thing, nothing, not important. That’s what he was.

Something pulled at him, under his ribs, at the very core of him. _What the fuck?_ Not the tendrils, not darkness and despair. It was…a filament of light, a calling, a feeling of _Bucky, where are you._ And then, two heartbeats later, contentedness, trust.

Steve.

 _What the hell, Steve_. Bucky’s eyes widened. What was Steve doing? Frowning, Bucky walked back to the group, keeping to the shadows where they couldn’t see or sense him. This was one of his most useful skills—he could flow through shadows _as a shadow_ , as if he was part of them. _Very handy for an assassin_. Again, the taste of bitterness in his throat, the curl of repulsion familiar to his gut, everything in him rebelling every time he used the shadows to move.

Hidden beside a building, Bucky stuffed his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket, leaned back on the wall, bending one leg at the knee and putting one foot up for balance. Settling into sniper mode, he watched Steve. His back half-turned to Bucky, he didn’t look like he was doing anything, except listening to Falcon as he told the story of another dullahan, how they'd saved the Falcon’s…whatever, someone he cared a lot about, apparently.

Falcon finally cried for his lost love, deep, heaving sobs. Bucky wanted to cry, too. For Falcon, for himself, for his victims. Wanted to carve his own eyes out, grind his own bones to a fine powder. The evil wasn’t in what he’d been turned into, but in him. Maybe it was the result of being tortured, killed, brought back and tortured again. Maybe. Still. It was _him_.

Godsforsaken _tears_ welled in his eyes, and he wiped them furiously. He had no right to cry. For anyone. He—

 _What.The.Fuck_. Steve just stood there, ostensibly doing nothing, but he pulled at that thing, the filament, squeezing it around Bucky’s heart. Gentle, warm, light, but a pull nonetheless.

More curious than anything else, Bucky stepped out of the shadows. “Stop it,” he grunted.

“Stop what?” Steve’s frown was an encyclopedic entry for confusion. And yet _he did it again_.

“I don’t fucking know.” He hoped he didn’t sound as strangled as he felt. “But _stop it_.” If he didn’t, Bucky would throw himself in Steve’s arms and let all his grief go, cry until he forgot his own name, forgot what he was and what he’d done.

That was not something he’d ever allow to happen. He didn’t deserve oblivion. Couldn’t afford to forget.

Once more, he was distracted from his misery by Steve and the assclowns he called a team. The full extent of his skills and will was required to hide both the misery and laughter that threatened to burst out. Either of those, if unleashed right now, would take him down like a shot in the back.

The _other_ thing that was either going to be Bucky’s damnation or his salvation was the happiness bursting from the dumbass standing next to him, so bright Bucky could have sworn his golden hair was shining. Beaming smile, crackling laugh, crinkling eyes.

“Alright, party’s over.” Widow’s expression flitted between condescending amusement and warm mockery. The exceedingly weird result created enough cognitive dissonance to befuddle civilians and lesser assets. Bucky could see why she was internationally renowned as a spy and assassin. She could probably have made the Minotaur carry her out of the labyrinth on its back. Bucky could also have sworn she knew _exactly_ what he was thinking, as she winked at him and threw an almost-invisible-smile his way while sticking her hand out to Steve. “The keys. The pickup is at the designated point. Everything you requested is there.”

“Except for the donuts.” Hawkeye shrugged cheerfully, shoulders touching his ears, eyes wide, mouth scrunched sideways. “They looked really good, couldn’t resist, sorry.” He showed his teeth like the grimacing emoji.

“Clint…” Widow, Falcon and Steve said in perfect unison, rolling their eyes in sync.

Bucky blinked. “How many times did you rehearse that?”

“Rehearse what?” Steve tilted his head sideways, keys jangling in his hand.

“That’s not rehearsal, man.” Hawkeye snorted, hooked his thumbs on his belt and balanced back and forth on his feet. “They always do that.”

“That what?” Steve looked from Hawkeye to Bucky. _Bemusement_ could have been written over his forehead, and Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. He would _not_ laugh at their antics.

“It’s practice.” A surprising amount of affection sparkled in Widow’s gaze, a hint of laughter sliding over her lips.

“Yeah, good ole’ Clint here gives us opportunities to practice every day. Like the postal service, he never takes a break.” Falcon clapped Hawkeye’s back twice, smiling his gapped-tooth smile broadly as Hawkeye jumped back, mock-punching his arm.

Scowling, Steve straightened unto his full height, crossed his massive arms over the boulder that made up for his chest, and thundered, “Time to go.”

Simultaneously, Widow, Hawkeye and Falcon jumped to attention, clapping their heels together and bringing their arms up into most exaggerated military salute Bucky had ever seen.

“Sir, yes, sir,” the three intoned loudly, banging their heels again while striking the other palm to their thighs.

Pursing her lips sideways but otherwise staying still, Widow loud-whispered, “This is practice, too.”

“Guys…” Steve sighed, covering his face with a hand. His ears resembled summer tomatoes, his head hanging low. Hazy memories told Bucky the Howling Commandos would have keeled over in a mix of laughter and envy.

“The Howlies would have loved to learn that trick.” His own words startled him.

Almost as much as the smiles directed at him by Steve’s team. Even Hawkeye seemed to have forgotten his determination to glare at Bucky.

Not that Bucky would trust any of it.

“We’d have loved to meet them.” Falcon nodded, smile broadening even more. His cheeks must hurt at this point. “They were really cool.”

“It would have been awesome! So much shared experience, even separated by centuries.”

“Not centuries, Clint.” Widow poked him in the forehead with one finger, and he reared back, looking indignant.

“I know, I was going for dramatic effect!” He threw his hands up.

“Sure.”

“Nat…”

Shaking her head, Widow grasped Hawkeye’s arm and steered him away from their little circle. “You can tell me about it on the ride back. Sam, you coming?”

“Yeah.” Sam stepped into Steve’s space, pulled him for a hug. They clapped each other heartily on the back. “You take care, okay? Don’t go around being a dumbass.”

“I never—”

“Oh please.” As he let go of Steve, Sam rolled his eyes, then turned to Bucky. “I’m trusting you’ll take care of his sorry ass.”

Bucky couldn’t fight the shadow of a smile that tugged the corner of his lips up. He nodded curtly. “Been doing it for over eighty-five fucking years, not gonna stop now.”

“See that you don’t.” Sam assessed him with sharp eyes for a moment, then extended his hand. Bucky took it, liked the firm but not unfriendly grasp. “Take care of your sorry ass, too.” Bucky’s surprise must have shown on his face—where the _fuck_ did his Winter Soldier training go, for the love of the Night Hag—because Sam snorted as he let Bucky’s hand go. “Don’t go getting any ideas. I’m not going soft on you, Barnes. I just _do not want_ to have to go combing all the ass cracks of the world searching for you again, and I know Captain Dumbass will never stop looking.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes so laughter or some other stupid emotion didn’t escape. “I like you, Falcon.”

“Sam.”

Alright then, if that’s how he wanted to play this. “Bucky.”

“Eh.” Sam’s nose scrunched up. “We’ll see.” And with that, he walked away.

What the fuck.

Bucky could _feel_ the laughter trapped inside Steve’s giant head. He tried to glare it into submission, but it spilled from Steve’s eyes anyway, his cheeks rosy, gaze bright, teeth obviously pressed behind his lips.

Intensifying the glare to _strip-flesh-from-your-bones_ level, Bucky gritted, “You know I could kill you, right?”

Steve nodded emphatically, eyes laughing even louder. Bucky sighed, turned his eyes to the sky. “Mythological assassins don’t get any respect around here. Unacceptable.”

At that, Steve couldn’t hold it in anymore. His laugher exploded out from him, reverberating like water drops in the sun, all around them.

Bucky couldn’t have stopped his own smile if he tried.

“Write a letter to management.” Steve clasped his forearm for a moment, eyes still laughing, spilling happiness all over his beautiful, dumb, grinning face.

Unthinking, a bit drunk on Steve’s happiness, grinning like a fool, Bucky lifted his hand to cover Steve’s where it grasped his own arm. Skin touched skin, a lingering contact. Steve’s eyes softened, his lips turned a different outline. An unsaid _yes_. A silent _please_. Gazes locked, air electric between them, charged with longing. Belonging.

A step closer, a whisper of space suddenly not there anymore. An exhale, and he was in Steve’s arms, safe and protected, bands of warm steel shielding his back. As Steve rested his forehead against Bucky, his gorgeous blue eyes closed. Bucky closed his own, breathing the same air as Steve.

Air and breath that Steve carved into soft pleading. “Please don’t ever make me be without you again.”

Steeped in pain, in fear, the whispered words tore a strangled sound up Bucky’s throat, an animal cry. He burrowed further, hiding his face in Steve’s chest, grasping him with all his might, a castaway desperately clinging to his last chance of survival. The uniform was smooth and warm under his palms as he slid them over Steve’s back and hooked his hands around the shield harness, his anguished grasp threatening to tear it apart. Their knees touched, knocked, both trembling, the gravity of the universe thrown askew.

“I won’t.” He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t. The Winter Soldier didn’t cry. “It was never…” _It was never my choice_ , but that was a lie, wasn’t it. He’d spent the last two years hiding from Steve. His choice, this time. No matter that he did it because he’d been barely a sentient being at first, and later to protect Steve when he realized the full extent of the danger he carried within, the depths of monstrosity hidden under his skin. It had been his choice.

“I won’t.” Now he’d made a different choice. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Okay.” Steve clasped him tighter, hand coming up to cup the back of his head. Bucky hoped to hell his promise wasn’t a lie.

“I hate saying it, but…” Steve nuzzled the top of Bucky’s head, softly, sending a jolt of longing down his bones, almost bringing him to his knees. “We really need to go.”

“Outstanding idea,” Bucky rasped. Better go before he met his end by dissolving into a puddle of goo on the sidewalk of a nondescript, abandoned Bucharestian suburb. _Death by wanting to cuddle Steve Rogers_ , wouldn’t that be a fitting end for Bucky Barnes.

Or what was left of him, anyways.

Reluctantly, he disentangled his arms from Steve, nodded. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos and all manner of screams, keyboard smashes and emojis are very much appreciated! 🙂 You can even laugh at the ridiculousness of skipping AN ENTIRE CHAPTER for publication. 🙈😂 
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt).


	4. There’s More Room In a Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A road trip. Ogling and longing. Burgers and fries are food for the Gods, and other thoughts about food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this is Chapter 4 and not Chapter 3. My apologies; the real Chapter 3 is published now.

After Steve pulled a leather jacket from one of the bike’s trunks and put it on, Bucky followed him in the opposite direction as the team. They walked narrow cobblestone streets, guarded on both sides by old, rickety buildings, many of them relics from the Soviet era. Steve pushing the bike, Bucky with his hands deep in his pockets, trying not to think about how Steve’s ass looked in that fucking uniform.

And failing, failing miserably.

In his defense, Steve’s ass looked fucking great. Or great for fucking, which. Same difference. Where did that line of thinking came from, after a lifetime of never even thinking about sex, was anyone’s guess.

A few blocks away, Steve nodded to a gray derelict garage door. Bucky scanned their surroundings—which he should have been doing, watching Steve’s six, instead of fantasizing about Steve’s behind—making sure nobody was around. Everything was silent and empty, so he pulled the door up and stepped aside.

Quietly, Steve dragged the motorcycle inside and Bucky closed the door behind them.

A medium-sized, nondescript dark gray pickup waited for them. It looked well used, a few scratches here and there, a small dent on the rear, nothing that could easily distinguish it from all the other nondescript dark gray pickups. Steve’s team wasn’t completely useless, it seemed.

Bucky helped Steve get the bike up on the trunk. And by “help” he meant “ogled Steve’s muscles bunch and flex as Steve pushed the bike up and fastened the tie down straps to the truck.”

What the fuck was happening to him.

Apparently his dick had taken over his brain or something. It wasn’t even hard. Bucky couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had an erection or any kind of sexual interest, if ever. But it was calling the shots anyway.

What a dick.

Yes, he could see the irony.

And Steve taking off his leather jacket, the shield harness _and_ the uniform’s jacket, standing there wearing only a _very_ tight compression shirt, all sweaty and golden, was not helping.

Like, at all.

“Uniform is too conspicuous,” Steve said, voice muffled by the shirt as he whipped it over his head, revealing kilometers of lickable abs, sinuous muscles etching his waist in the most enticing way. Bucky wanted to lick him so bad, wanted to lick him all over. By the power of the Wild Hunt, he was going to swallow his tongue.

“No shit.” His growl could have stemmed either from grumpiness because yeah, the uniform, that ridiculous helmet, and the giant frisbee currently attached to the bike’s side were a giant COME GET ME sign.

Or it could be lust turning his voice lower and growly. Who could say.

He wanted to scrub a hand down his face, maybe slap himself, but that would mean he’d lose precious seconds of semi-naked Steve. He did not have the wherewithal to bear the thought of it. Once again, his fucking Winter Soldier training failed him when he most needed it.

Steve opened the pickup driver’s door and rummaged inside. On one hand, good, because it hid his ridiculously sculpted torso and gave Bucky a minute to regain his composure.

Or it would have. Except. Steve’s ass was sticking up, round and tempting, so tempting. A diffuse memory of touching, fingers digging into muscle, of Steve moaning roughly, shot lightning up Bucky’s spine, making his knees buckle. He gasped, garbled and breathless, turned away before Steve saw the shameless way his pants had tightened.

Gods above.

His first boner in probably seventy years, give or take. Just from watching Steve moving about, and a sliver of a memory.

The power Steve Rogers had over Bucky by simply _existing_ would have been terrifying down to his very mutilated soul, if he didn’t trust Steve more than even himself, more than anything, more than he trusted the sun would rise and set for the next how many fuckazillion years.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice was uncertain.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” He hated himself because instantly he knew Steve would think he was having second thoughts about accompanying him, would think Bucky was leaving him again. And he couldn’t stand the thought of causing Steve any pain anymore. Calling upon all he had left of will and strength, he turned back to Steve, allowed his eyes to smile. “I need to know if I need to acquire gear, appropriate clothes, any mission related materiel.”

The way Steve dissolved into relief was almost visible, as if he’d crumbled into relieved, happy fragments.

And Gods below.

Bucky needed to get better at this, take better care of Steve, or at the very fucking least _stop causing him pain and distress_. Steve deserved so much better than this. So much better than this Bucky, this sorry excuse for a person, this _thing_ made of bones and regret.

“I own a safe house in Madrid, a cabin in the mountains.” Steve dragged a black t-shirt over his head, covering all those miles of golden skin. Bucky fought the urge to pout, fought even harder the urge to rip the thing apart with his bare hands and lick Steve’s stomach. His chest. All of him. “Bucky?”

Realizing he’d glued his stare to Steve’s chest, Bucky lifted his head sharply. His gaze clashed with Steve’s round, blue eyes and a question he wasn’t going to answer, couldn’t answer.

Bucky shook his head. “Go on.”

Steve blinked twice, disappointment quickly hidden. “We have about 32 hours to get there. We’ll stop on the way to sleep at night. That means we’ll arrive at the cabin in about four days.”

Driving wasn’t the fastest way, but it was safer. No airport security, no ticket checks, no scrutiny as long as they kept a low profile. Which wasn’t one of Steve’s strengths, but Bucky would take care of it. Keep Steve safe.

Yeah, he could do that. He didn’t deserve any fucking thing, but since he apparently couldn’t keep Steve away from him, he’d keep Steve safe.

And he would figure out what the fuck were those tendrils. He’d keep Steve safe from that, too. No matter the cost to himself.

Steve was the only thing that mattered.

A few minutes later they were on the road, closed garage door behind them. The pickup’s cabin was spacious, comfortable for long-legged, bulky people. Steve drove while Bucky arranged himself as close as possible to the opposite door. He didn’t need space, didn’t _want_ space. He wanted to plaster himself to Steve’s side, rest his head on his shoulder, take his hand.

That want wasn’t allowed, he couldn’t, shouldn’t be so close to Steve. In any sense.

So he pressed his body away, willing himself to melt into the door, and watched the landscape flying around them as they covered kilometers upon kilometers.

The space behind the pickup’s bench was filled to the brim with boxes, reusable shopping bags and a dark gray duffel bag, from which Steve had unearthed the black t-shirt and, of all things, a _flannel shirt_ to wear over the t-shirt. The black and dark green checkered flannel turned his skin alabaster pale, his freaking hair glinting in honey tones.

Bucky wanted to lick Steve’s hair, what the unholy fuck was wrong with him.

“Are you hungry?” Steve nodded toward his back, eyes steady on the road. “Clint ate the donuts, but there’s more food in the bags. And water in the cooler. Are you thirsty?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“What?” Funny how Bucky could _hear_ Steve’s frown.

“You managed to stay quiet for twenty whole minutes. That must be a world record.”

“Oh c’mon Bucky, that’s not fair!” Bucky could hear the smile, too.

Couldn’t avoid smiling as well, but he could hide it, keep his head turned to the outside of his window. “It’s good, really. While you’re talking at least I know exactly what’s going on inside that giant dumbass head of yours.”

The shake of Steve’s head blurred his peripheral vision. “Jerk.”

“Punk.” It left his mouth without permission or a fucking warning.

A sound reverberated inside the cabin. A sob, a gurgle, strangled and raw. Bucky honestly didn’t know which one of them had produced it. Maybe both of them, an unison of arriving home, of rusty things slotting back into the right place after having been torn apart.

Heart stuttering, breathless, Bucky’s system went haywire, lost footing. It was like drowning, but at the same time like water was air, like drowning in everything he needed, everything he’d always wanted. Terrifying nevertheless, it would kill him anyway.

He didn’t dare look at Steve. If he found in Steve’s face a reflection of what thundered inside his ribs, he’d crack, he’d cry.

The Winter Soldier didn’t cry. Soul collectors made of bones and misery didn’t cry.

Holding his breath, he forced himself to stare out the window, unblinking, until the unshed tears receded and his eyes burned. Only then did he venture a look back inside.

Even though Bucky had the distinct sensation Steve wasn’t really seeing it, his gaze was still on the road, hands relaxed on the steering wheel, his breathing steady. But he was far away, and Bucky didn’t know if the place where Steve had gone was good or not, so he decided to bring him back.

“You must be thirsty too.” He nudged Steve’s thigh with his knee. “Water?”

“What?” Steve blinked twice, swallowed roughly and took a deep breath. Bad place, then. _I got you, Stevie_. “Yeah, water is fine.”

Get water for Steve. A good little mission, required just a sliver of skill, just enough to distract himself from thoughts of touching Steve’s face, running his fingers through his honey golden hair. He needed to contort his body to reach the cooler and find the bottles, but it was much easier than most of what he’d ever done on missions.

Oh, to be granted a life entirely comprised of _taking-care-of-Steve_ missions. A wistful sigh escaped his lips.

Not allowed.

 _Not allowed_. Bucky bit the inside of his lower lip until he tasted pain and blood. He was forgetting himself, what he was, what he’d done, with alarming frequency. Touching Steve, making promises. Making fucking _promises_.

Hallucinating about a life of taking care of Steve.

What the fuck was he going to do, now. Livid with his pathetic self, he rummaged through the cooler with more energy than necessary, took one bottle out, unscrewed the lid and gave it to Steve.

“Thanks.” Steve drank it in big gulps, then returned the empty bottle. “What about you?”

“Not thirsty.” Bucky crushed the bottle, wishing it was his own skull.

“When was the last time you drank or ate anything?” Suspicious eyes landed sideways on him. Bucky suppressed the urge to bat that gaze away.

“I don’t need it.” Technically true. He didn’t need it to survive. Hydra had made that very, _very_ clear for him, many times. The fact that without nourishment and hydration he felt miserable, sick, transparent and immaterial as the shadows he walked through, was unimportant.

Oh Gods, the chin of stubbornness and justice came up. And sure enough, Steve signaled he was going to stop and…parked the pickup on the side of the road.

Bucky refused to point out that Steve shouldn’t do that. If a road patrol saw him they’d come to helpfully yell at them, give them a ticket, make a nuisance of themselves. Captain America didn’t have much value outside of the US in the best of times, but now? After all the clusterfucks of the last few years, after going rogue? Ha fucking ha.

The infamous Winter Soldier, however, would yield a pretty penny on the black market. They wouldn’t get him, but they’d try, and. Well. Bucky knew how _that_ news story ended. He really didn’t want to go through any of that again.

“Are you _trying_ to get us in trouble?” Crossing his arms, Bucky sighed and reclined against his door, turning back to Steve, who was looking at him.

Great, the chin of stubbornness had gone down, while the Captain-America-is-disappointed-in-you face took its place.

“Already told you, that shit doesn’t work on me, pal.”

“I know when you’re lying to me, Buck.” And this wasn’t Cap, this was Steve Rogers, the scrappy kid that sat on dirty stairwells with Bucky. This was Stevie, the person who mattered more to Bucky than anyone or anything else. And he was sad.

Bucky had absolutely no defense against that.

“I’m not lying,” Bucky said and Steve looked down, his massive shoulders sliding up and down in a sad sigh. Bucky wanted to punch himself, bang his head with the car door until it cracked. “Alright, _fuck_. I really don’t need anything to survive, okay? I feel miserable when I don’t eat or drink water, but I’m not going to die.”

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that.” Steve scrunched his eyes closed, held his breath for a second. His knuckles turned white, fists solid, resting over his thighs. “I just—”

“Hey, Stevie, hey, it’s okay.” Bucky stretched towards him, dragged his butt closer so he could reach Steve’s hands. Clasped them, one on each of his own, rubbing soft circles over the pale, tight skin. “That was a long time ago. It’s over.”

Swallowing roughly, Steve turned his palms up, intertwined their fingers and kept his gaze on their linked hands. “I will never forgive myself. For any of this.”

“No, Steve, c’mon. I know you’re a dumbass, but that’s too far, even for you.” He trapped the next words inside by the skin of his teeth. _Please don’t be sad. I can’t take it_.

“How can you joke about it?” A lone tear fell to their fingers, drowning all of Bucky’s ability to fight himself. He lifted his hand, slowly, softly, to wipe Steve’s cheek. Steve still didn’t look at him. “How can you… have survived all that, and not hate me, Buck?”

That startled a laugh out of Bucky. “Did you lose all your marbles in one of your dumbass missions? Or did the aliens take them?”

“Buck…”

“Don’t _Buck_ me.” He manhandled Steve so he could touch their foreheads together, as Steve had done earlier. Cradling his giant, beloved head, he said, “I could never hate you, Steve. You must know that.”

“Why?” More a choked breath than a word. “I deserve your hate, Buck. It’s the only thing I truly deserve.”

“ _No_. No. Not that, never that.” Bucky shook his head minutely. “Steve. Please.”

A tremor rattled Steve’s body, shaking his limbs, as if he were fighting and had received a punch to the gut. Bucky pulled him into a hug, awkward inside the confined space, but neither of them gave a shit. Steve went willingly, docile as Bucky only remembered him being with… Bucky.

Hand at his nape, he cradled Steve’s head against his neck, whispering into his temple, “I don’t hate you. I’ll never hate you. You came for me.”

“Not when it mattered,” Steve sobbed. He was crying, and Bucky would have given his bones, his skull, _anything_ , to take his pain away.

“What matters is that you came. Anyone else would have killed me in that helicarrier, Steve. You gave up your life to save me. Your fucking _life_.” Gravel lodged on his throat. “Don’t do that ever again, by the way. Or I _will_ kill you.”

A watery laugh reverberated over Bucky’s neck. “Okay, Buck.”

 _Oh, Steve_. All that Bucky wanted was to hear Steve laugh, see him happy as he’d been earlier. He’d decided to keep Steve safe, to stop hurting him, didn’t he? Yet here they were, blinkers screaming on the side of the road and Steve miserable. Hating himself. Because Bucky was too stubborn, feeling too guilty, to have some water. _Way to go, asshole_.

The Winter Soldier was nothing if not adaptable. He knew how to recognize when he was failing on a mission, how to adjust his strategy accordingly.

This was the most important mission of his entire fucked up life. _He. Would. Not. Fail_.

Giving in to the temptation of sliding his fingers through the soft hairs at Steve’s nape—he could have died there, happy, because nothing would ever be as good as that small touch, as the shiver that raced through Steve’s mountain of a body—he said, “How about this. I’ll drink the water, we’ll eat something, and get back on the road. Okay?”

“Okay.” Nodding slowly, Steve nuzzled his neck. Once, twice, nose sliding softly over Bucky’s sensitive skin. Bucky held his breath tightly, swallowing a moan and another crushing wave of longing.

“Sorry.” Steve straightened up, a mix of satisfaction, smugness and apologetic chagrin on his face. He couldn’t have missed Bucky’s reaction to the contact.

 _Revenge for me touching your hair?_ Bucky wanted to say. _I will retaliate_ , he wanted to say. He had nebulous memories of ridiculous banter, absurd competitions and fake fights that ended in breathlessness and contentment.

But it was still a foreign land, an unknown territory where he wasn’t familiar with the landscape, the dangers, the pitfalls. So he just mumbled, “It’s alright.” He didn’t want Steve thinking the gesture had been unwelcome. Captain Dumbass definitely didn’t need more reasons to despise himself. Some desolate, resigned part of his older, original core told him that wasn’t new.

His resigned smile found a counterpart on Steve’s lips, as he asked, “More water?”

At Steve’s nod, Bucky collected two bottles from the cooler. Once he started drinking, he gulped it greedily, swallowing grateful mouthfuls. He’d been thirsty, parched, and didn’t even realize.

That was another tricky remain from his enslavement. It was hard for him to recognize the signs his body gave him that it needed something, usually until he was in serious bad shape. Back at the apartment, he’d managed it with a meticulous schedule, alarms on his phone and little reminders everywhere—over the counter, on the bathroom mirror, beside his mattress on the floor. Not written reminders, but small objects that on his mind had a connection to what he needed to do.

“You were right,” he found himself saying, a pang of regret squeezing his chest. “There were a few things I should have brought from the apartment.”

“I brought them.” Steve’s grin could have been seen from space. “They’re in the backpack with the notebooks.”

Regret forgotten for a moment, Bucky snorted. “You don’t even know what they are.”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of, it’s in that backpack. You can check later.” Bucky hadn’t known until that second, but he’d missed that annoying shit-eating grin like the desert missed rain. “Let’s eat. And let’s go.”

Bucky got a couple of sandwiches from a paper bag while Steve turned the engine on and took them back to the road. He drove one-handed, managing his sandwich with the other hand. Bucky didn’t much care. Steve’s reflexes were fast enough that the sandwich would reach Jupiter before anything out of the order happened with the pickup.

As he took the first bite, Bucky tried unsuccessfully to swallow a moan. “Fuck this is good,” he mumbled, mouth full.

“Don’t be gross,” Steve said, a little bit strangled. “Eat first, talk later.”

“Can’t talk, this is too good.” Medusa’s blessed snakes, it was. Amazing, even. Thick, aromatic bread, smeared generously with butter, filled with good quality ham, sliced very thinly but piled very high. Thick slices of Romanian cheese and juicy tomatoes, fresh greens and bright lettuce.

Famished and spurred by deliciousness, Bucky devoured it, eyes at times closed to savor it better, at times focusing on Steve to enjoy the happiness stamped on his face, crinkling in his eyes. When he finished, he sighed contently and reclined against the door, this time not to distance himself but to get a better view of Steve. “Holy fuck, that was good.”

“There’s more in the bag.” Again, with the bigger-than-the-wall-of-China smile.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” Bucky sighed. “I’m still coming down from that high.”

“Refractory period getting longer with age, huh.” Steve’s whole face scrunched up in a grimace. “Ugh, sorry.”

“You should be. That was a terrible joke.”

All at once, Steve’s face decompressed from the chagrined lines and reconfigured in laughter. Bucky would happily live forever in that sound, that expression.

“You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me, Steve.” He softened the seriousness of his words by obtaining and offering Steve another sandwich. “I’m not made of glass. I’m not a blushing virgin.”

Steve’s snort surprised him. “No, you’re definitely not. Though I’ve seen you blush once or twice.” Turning his head towards Bucky, he wiggled his brows. It was ridiculous and not in any way ridiculously cute. “You’re very pretty when you blush.”

“Oh for the love of the undead spirits.” Bucky stuffed his mouth full of delicious sandwich. _Focus on the sandwich. Do not think about Steve making you blush. Or stuffing your mouth full of—_ He chewed furiously, bit his tongue. “Ow, motherfucker.”

“Are you okay?”

“Bit my tongue.” He took a swig of water, lifted a finger to forestall Steve’s incoming commentary. “Nope. Let me enjoy my sandwich in peace, you delinquent.”

“Delinquent?” Steve spluttered with laughter.

Determined to enjoy his fucking sandwich—bad, _bad_ choice of words…thanks a lot, brain—he turned resolutely to the window and ate without hurry, savoring each bite. Sighing, heart full of joy and this strange happiness that bloomed whenever _Steve_ was happy.

How the fuck could he feel Steve’s happiness and contentedness wrapped around his own heart, he still didn’t know. But that was alright. He was getting used to it, as if this was how things ought to be, as if he’d always had a filament of the spun gold that made up Steve, tangled under his ribcage.

*****

They crossed the Romanian-Hungarian border without any problems, thanks to papers Steve had brought. Bucky didn’t ask where he got them, because he didn’t care, but they were well faked, one of the best jobs Bucky had seen. He’d bet Widow had helped Steve obtain them.

Of course Bucky had his own stash of fake papers, but Steve was proud— _proud_ , what an adorable dork—of being able to provide this for Bucky, and Bucky discovered indulging Steve was one of the most extraordinary pleasures he’d experienced. So he smiled, memorized the name on his passport and Steve’s fake name, acted as if they were “bros”. They crossed the border, and that was that.

Two hours after, they stopped at a little off-the-road hotel. Small and clean, a little bit rundown but obviously cared for. The hotel was pleasant, a kind host to weary travelers. Bucky suddenly found out he was indeed weary and tired.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Steve said after negotiating their room in passable Hungarian, when they stood beside the pickup.

Ugh. Bucky restrained himself from staring longingly at their room’s door, just a few meters away. “Don’t you have like three tons of food in the truck?”

“You ate all the sandwiches, pal.”

“ _We_ ate all the sandwiches, _pal_.” The gall of this guy. Bucky had eaten one more than Steve. _One_. “But I know you have more food in there.” He didn’t want to say he was tired, make Steve worry.

“I know you’re tired.”

Okay, what the fuck.

“But let’s just go get something hot, please? Some burgers?” He wiggled his brows again in that not-at-all-adorable way. “And fries?”

Oh, the betrayal. Burgers and fries were among Bucky’s top three favorite foods. Burger and fries was food for the Gods. Defeated, he slumped. “Fine.”

Ten minutes later, they sat in a local fast food joint’s booth, burgers piled high between them, swimming in a sea of fries. His stomach growled and he felt his eyes widen. He hadn’t heard that sound, hadn’t felt that in…since Before, probably.

“What are you waiting for?” Steve didn’t wait for an answer, he grabbed a burger and started shoveling food into his face. With a pang of guilt, Bucky realized Steve must be hungry too.

Guilt was easily drowned by hot, greasy burgers covered in bacon, melted cheese, and caramelized onions. Guilt didn’t stand a chance against hot, thick, crunchy and greasy fries smothered in mayo.

“Still doing that?” Steve pointed to Bucky’s fries, dipped one of his own in ketchup. “That’s just gross.”

“And ketchup is not.” Bucky arched a brow and stuffed another mouthful of mayo-covered fries on his mouth.

“Ketchup on your fries is a great, honorable tradition—”

“Says _who_?” Laughter almost made him choke on his fries, which would have been a tragedy. A waste of good fries.

“Says me!” Steve laughed too, munching happily on his food. “We used to have this exact same discussion every time we went out for burgers, you know.” Apparently wistfulness could also be drowned by food. After scarfing another burger, he said, “It wasn’t often that we could scrounge up enough money to go to a diner, but sometimes…Sometimes we managed, and it was magic.”

“Milkshakes.” Bucky closed one eye as the memory unfurled on his senses. “Big, ice cold, creamy milkshakes. I liked peanut butter.” He glared at Steve, one-eyed. “You liked strawberry. I caved in every time.” Shaking his head, he twisted his lips sideways as Steve grinned, unrepentant.

“We shared, always asked for two straws. Everybody thought it was because we didn’t have money for two.”

“And we didn’t. But…”

Steve’s soft smile punched Bucky right in the ribs, cracked them, longing slipping inside through the cracks. “But we’d have asked anyway because it gave us an excuse to be real close to one another. In public.”

Even as his lips curled around a nostalgic smile, Bucky ducked his head to look at the fries, at the burger in his hand, before he did something really absurd like pulling Steve over the table and kissing him.

This was a familiar pain, sharpened over and over along the years, wanting to kiss Steve and not being allowed to do so. So sharp it cut something open in him and memories poured out. A young, scrawny, fireball Steve, his smiling face so sweet over the rim of the milkshake glass. The phantom sensation of knuckles brushing as they grasped the straws, any excuse good enough to steal a glance, a touch.

They were _so happy_. Poor as dirt, forced to hide their feelings, Bucky working back breaking hours to provide for Steve, Steve always fighting his body, the body too small to contain the immensity and intensity of his being. Working when he could, delirious with fever and rage when he couldn’t.

And they were so, _so_ stupidly happy. His heart filled with affection for those too poor idiots, so in love that nothing else mattered. Until war and evil and duty and time had ripped everything away from them.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and he stood abruptly. Steve looked up, worry on his face, his burger halfway stuffed into his mouth.

“Gonna get more mayo.” He hightailed out of the booth as fast as he could without actually running, then stopped in the middle of the dining room. Where was he going? What the fuck was he doing? Cheeks warm—the Winter Soldier _did not_ blush, dammit—he went to the counter and asked for more mayonnaise. The kid behind the till looked like he was going to argue about how many packets he could give away—Bucky had already taken a lot—but the Winter Soldier menacing silence shut him right up. Shaking slightly, he brought up a tin filled with packets and let Bucky take whatever he wanted.

Had Bucky grabbed the entire tin, the kid would have probably surrendered it and cowered under the counter. Bucky almost laughed. He took two and even tried to smile. “Thanks.”

“No, no problem, sir.” The kid—Andras, his name tag said—nodded vigorously. “No problem.”

As he turned away, he caught a glimpse of the menu and smiling without trying, placed a new order.

The way Steve’s eyes lit up, his grin huge and blinding, when Bucky came back to their table was one of the best things Bucky had seen in decades. “Scoot over,” he ordered, placing the milkshake in front of Steve.

Steve slid in the booth, making room for Bucky to sit right next to him. A shiver went up Bucky’s back when their thighs brushed, but he didn’t move away. “Strawberry?” Steve asked hopefully, eyes crinkling.

“They didn’t have peanut butter.” Bucky hadn’t even asked, actually. The kid had looked funny at him when he asked for two straws, but didn’t comment.

Smart kid.

For a moment they both stared at each other, unmoving, a mix of happiness, embarrassment and whatever the fuck else that Bucky wouldn’t name, on Steve’s face. The same thing that cradled his heart now, gently, glowing warm and steady under his ribs.

Instead of blurting _I feel like I have a piece of you inside my chest_ , Bucky grasped one straw, looking challengingly at Steve.

Steve arched a brow. Grabbed the other straw.

This was different. When they had done it in the Before, they’d be sitting on opposite sides of the table, a measure of distance, a barrier between them. Side to side like this, so much more intimate, Bucky was breathless with it.

They both moved slowly toward the cup. A plastic cup, not the beautiful tall milkshake glasses from his memory, but having Steve laughing with his eyes as they approached the straws, lips pursing as he took the first swig…it was the most beautiful thing.

Until they cracked their foreheads together and burst out laughing.

“Ow,” Steve complained, rubbing a spot on his forehead. Laughing.

“You’re such a dumbass.” Laughing too. “We’re too big for this. Your head,” he poked a finger at Steve’s temple, “is too big for this.”

“Hey!” Steve grabbed his finger and wrestled it down, laughing. “We just need a plan.” He didn’t let go of Bucky’s finger, instead intertwining their hands together and letting them rest on his lap.

“A plan. For sharing a milkshake.” He tried his best expressionless Winter Soldier expression.

“Yes.”

“Really.”

Tugging on his hand, Steve spluttered, “Yes! Just, let me go in first, then you. And don’t bang my head!”

“No promises.” His laughter was about to come out his ears.

Cautiously, Steve bent his head and put his lips near the straw. Taking a deep breath as if he were about to go diving—which in a way, he was—Bucky followed him, slotting his head next to Steve’s. His hair slid over Steve’s temple, and they both shivered. He allowed himself to lean towards Steve, his head resting lightly against the giant blond head.

“See?” Steve said around his straw.

Bucky couldn’t keep his laughter in anymore. “Yes, Steve. I see. Drink.”

For a few moments, they drank the milkshake quietly, heads brushing, stealing sideway glances, eyes smiling. Steve sighed, and Bucky was assailed with the desire to turn his head to the side, just a millimeter, to kiss Steve’s cheek.

So he did it. His lips brushed feather light over Steve’s cheekbone, a whisper before he pressed it gently, feeling Steve’s warmth, shaping his mouth on the curve near his temple. Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He closed his eyes, squeezed Bucky’s fingers, still twined with his own.

“I’ve missed you so much, Buck,” he murmured. His voice was always so soft when he said that, as if the words didn’t want to make any noise as they escaped his chest, scared of the depth of feeling they carried.

Wordlessly, Bucky reclined back in the booth and tugged Steve with him, putting his right arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve leaned his head into him, melting sweetly to Bucky’s body in a deep sigh. Bucky lifted his hand from Steve’s arm to his head, cradling it as he kissed the temple closer to him. “I missed you too,” he said, lips brushing Steve’s honey hair. “Even when I didn’t know it, Steve, I was missing you.”

Steve turned to him, snaking his arms around Bucky’s waist. They hugged for a moment, squeezing each other. Being content in each other. They could have dozed off right there, tired and happy.

But Bucky would rather have Steve safe behind a locked door, comfortable in a bed. “Let’s finish our food and go get some rest, okay?”

“Alright,” Steve grumbled, straightening up.

“One of us needs to be an adult.” Bucky dove back into the fries. They were cold, but he still loved them. With mayonnaise. And there was still a burger left for him, which he polished in three bites. “And you’re clearly not it.”

“Whatever, I’m too tired to argue. Jerk.”

“Drink your milkshake and eat your food, punk.”

Somehow Steve managed to smile the entire time while he ate. Bucky did, too.


	5. Though My Story's Seldom Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two beds for two tired soldiers…or are they? 
> 
> A feeling of home and a flashback that hurts. Intimacy, touching, an unexpected discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the gorgeous art by [leathermouthed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/pseuds/leathermouthed)!

The room was as nice as the website photos had promised, clean, small, but enough.

Two big beds took up most of the space. Steve didn’t want to pressure Bucky into anything, make him uncomfortable in any way…and yet he was still a little bit disappointed when Bucky told him he’d take the bed closer to the door, instead of suggesting they’d sleep in the same bed.

Steve had chosen this motel, this room, because it looked defensible. He knew it would help Bucky feel safer. Near the door, a round table, accompanied by two chairs, allowed a bit of space between the entrance and the queen beds. The only window faced the beds, so they could see it while laying down.

The bathroom, located on the far wall, opposite the entrance, offered a big sized shower and nice towels. The small window could be made bigger if two supersoldiers needed it as an escape route. Everything was sparkling clean and and scented with pine soap.

Sitting on his bed, Steve removed his boots. The wooden floors felt nice under his bare feet as he rolled his shoulders back, groaning in pleasure and pain and relief. He’d been on his feet since the day before, hadn’t slept at all as he’d gotten closer to locating Bucky. He was so grateful he’d found Bucky before the police, even if it meant he was exhausted to the very limits of his capacity, even as a supersoldier. If necessary, he’d be able to keep going for days still, but he had Bucky near and safe, and a warm bed, and a hot shower. He couldn’t fight that kind of artillery.

As he stripped his jacket and shirt and finally his undershirt, he could have sworn he heard a strangled sound coming from Bucky’s general area, but when he turned, all he found was Bucky’s bored expression. Sitting on the other side of his own bed, one leg up, bent at the knee, twirling a knife with his metal hand. The color high on his cheeks, however, said…something. Steve wanted to find out exactly what.

Deliberately, he turned his back to Bucky, slowing his movements. Kneaded the muscles on the back of his neck, stretching a bit, and let a little relieved moan escape. A lot of tension had perched there, so he tilted his head to one side then the other, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. He could hear Bucky’s breath deepening, slowing, mirroring his own.

Emboldened, Steve stood up in a fluid movement, slowly lowered his zipper. He then hooked his thumbs on either side of his hips, inside the pants, and turned his head over his shoulder. He wouldn’t do this if Bucky wasn’t okay with it.

But Bucky nodded, mouth slightly open, eyes bright. His gaze didn’t follow Steve’s hands as he slid the pants over the swell of his ass, however. He kept Steve’s gaze captive, and Steve remembered this. What Bucky wanted was to see how _Steve_ felt under Bucky’s attention, what it did to Steve to expose himself for Bucky like this. To be vulnerable and teasing and full of desire to be seen.

Steve hadn’t felt _seen_ since Bucky had fallen. Not like this. Nobody else had ever seen Steve like this, but Bucky knew. He maybe didn’t even remember, but he knew.

Never turning away or fully to Bucky, he let his pants fall and stepped off them. Allowing Bucky to look at him, cradle him with his attention, with his gaze. Low arousal pooled in his belly, sweet, syrupy. He wondered if Bucky could see his dick hardening under his black boxers, but what made him breathless, what had him spellbound and weightless was the intimacy, the acknowledgment of him as _person_ , as human.

Time lost meaning as he stood there, head turned towards Bucky, living inside Bucky’s gaze. Bucky looked as if he was staring at galaxies forming, as if Steve was precious and miraculous.

Steve would never need anyone else to look at him, after that gaze.

He was weak with the need to sink to his knees and prostrate himself before Bucky in adoration, to worship him with his mouth and his body, feel Bucky alive under his fingers. To show him that _he_ was the miracle, the most precious thing in the Universe.

They weren’t there yet, however, so Steve tried to express his devotion as he could, standing still, offering himself to Bucky’s gaze, drinking his presence. He’d never know what Bucky was thinking, but finally he nodded and turned his eyes down, hid his flushed face behind the luscious curtain of his hair. “Too much,” he murmured.

“Are you alright?” That was all that mattered.

A nod.

“Then it’s okay, Buck.” Steve took a deep breath, unsure if he could or should offer a hug. Bucky seemed overwhelmed, so maybe better not. “I’m gonna hit the shower, alright?”

Nod.

As he turned away to collect his stuff, cold, crushing fear gripped his throat. Freezing, he choked, struggling with the terror that Bucky would be gone when he came back from the bathroom. He squeezed his eyes against tears, trying to get a breath through his suddenly too tight windpipe.

“Steve.” Soft and clear. Sure.

He tried, he did, but if he opened his mouth what would come out would be a sob, and he didn’t want to burden Bucky with his stupid fears. His shoulders trembled.

“Look at me.”

Steve shook his head. _I don’t want you to see me like this, Buck_.

“Please.”

There was no way Steve would deny a request like that. Crashing his closed fists to his eyes, he applied pressure, willing the tears to go back in, and bit his lip. It was all useless anyway, Bucky knew he was having some sort of meltdown, so he turned to face him, defeated.

Bucky’s face was still half hidden by his hair, but his expression was soft, patient, maybe a little sad. “I’m not going anywhere, Steve. I promise.”

And then Steve couldn’t keep it together anymore. The tears escaped, running down his face, and he nodded. This was the second time Bucky was saying he wouldn’t abandon Steve, and Bucky had never, _ever_ broken a promise to Steve. “Okay.” Half word, half choked sob.

Bucky stood up and covered the scant space between the two beds. With a visible swallow, he lifted his arm and offered his flesh hand to Steve. Tumbling forward, Steve took it, and Bucky interlaced their fingers, squeezing softly for a moment before letting go, sorrow etched over his downturned face. “I wish I could hug you. I _hate_ that sometimes it just…it’s easy, the way it should be. And other times, _nothing_ is like it should be and I can’t.”

“It’s okay, Buck. It really is.” He looked down, closed his eyes. As he ran his fingers through his hair, he looked at Bucky, found him looking back at him, eyes bright and sad. “You’re enough. Just as you are, you’re more than enough.”

For a moment, Bucky froze, face between awed and disbelieving, then he ducked his head all the way down, hiding, and grumbled, “Go shower. You’re stinking up the room.”

 _I love you too, Buck_. “Asshole.”

After days of little to no rest, the tension of trying to find Bucky before it was too late, driving for hours, plus the roller coaster of emotions at the end of the day left Steve exhausted to the bone, tired as he hadn’t felt since his body was small. The hot, almost scalding shower allowed his sore muscles to relax, uncoil. He had to fight with all his might to not melt into a puddle and sleep right there under the spray.

The only thing that kept him from passing out were the small noises announcing Bucky’s presence. It wasn’t the same as bathing in a tin can in the same room, watching Bucky move about preparing dinner, or listening while he read aloud his latest sci-fi finding, but hearing Bucky in the next room had a distinct taste of _home_.

Sighing contentedly, Steve dried himself with the hotel towel—not as fluffy or big like the ones he had in the cabin, but good enough for a bone-weary soldier—put a pair of clean boxer briefs on, and went back to the room.

Happiness struck him like a ton of bricks when Bucky looked up at him from his perch on the bed and smiled, brightening up as much as Steve did every time he saw Bucky. His own grin stretched up until he felt it in the corner of his eyes.

“Good shower?” At Steve’s nod, he narrowed his eyes, expression going blank and hard in a way that Steve was beginning to recognize as _Bucky-playing-Winter-Soldier-scary_. “Did you leave enough hot water for me?”

Suppressing a laugh, Steve shifted his eyes sideways and pursed his lips in the opposite direction, purposefully looking guilty. “Uh.” He made an exaggerated shrug.

“Steve, if I get in the shower and cold water—” A shudder went through him. His face lost all playfulness, going pale, and he closed his eyes, arms knotting protectively over his stomach as he curled in on himself.

 _Oh shit_. Steve could guess the reason for Bucky’s sudden panic. _Fuck fuck fuck_. He cursed himself to hell and back, rushing to his side and sitting beside him.

“Buck. I’m here.” His hand hovered over Bucky’s shoulder. He hated, _hated_ not knowing what to do. “You’re okay.”

Bucky shook his head, his whole body now shaking.

“Can I touch you?” Curling even more on himself, Bucky nodded. Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Steve put his right hand on Bucky’s left shoulder and splayed his left hand over his back with all the gentleness he was capable of. Kneaded a bit on the tense muscle, feeling the shaking intensify under his touch. “You’re in a hotel room with me, Buck. You’re safe.” Shifting the hand over Bucky’s back to his right shoulder, he touched Bucky’s hair, tucking the strands behind his ear. Caressed his temple softly. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Ever again.”

Rigid and trembling, Bucky turned towards Steve, again making himself into that same small ball as before, trying to avoid more damage to his body. Heart breaking and bleeding, Steve encircled him with his arms, curling around Bucky, wanting to be refuge, to stand between Bucky and the fucking disgrace of a world that had hurt him, his precious Bucky, like this. Steve trembled too, rage and impotence coursing through his veins like acid poison. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Bit by bit, Bucky’s shaking eased, his muscles relaxed, until he slumped in Steve’s arms, head resting on Steve’s shoulder. Steve kissed his temple and caressed his hair. “I’m sorry, Buck. I keep fucking up—”

“Shut up.” Garbled, rough. He coughed a little. “I’m broken. Not your fault.”

“No, no.” Steve dared to squeeze Bucky a millimeter more. “You’re not broken.”

“I am, Steve.” He sighed, body moving slightly and then deflating when he exhaled. “I am very, very broken. There’s nothing left in me that hasn’t been broken and distorted and fucked up.”

“I’m not going to argue right now,” Steve conceded, not wanting to upset Bucky further. “But what I’ve said it’s true, it will always be true: I don’t care. I just care about you. I just want to take care of you and make sure you’re safe.”

“Oh, Steve.” Bucky laughed a little laugh, a resigned laugh. “I don’t deserve any of that, you dumbass. I really shouldn’t allow you to be near me. It’s dangerous. But you make it really, really hard to go away.”

“I’m glad,” Steve choked out, tightening his arms another fraction.

“Of course you are.” Bucky’s head rolled on Steve’s shoulder. “I think I’m ready for a hot shower…Will you stay with me? If you’re there, I. I know nothing bad will happen. I know it to the marrow of my bones.”

“I’ll do anything you want, Buck.” Torn between being happy that Bucky trusted him that much, and rage and sadness that he needed a reminder that he was safe, Steve nodded. “Anything.”

A deep, shuddering breath went through Bucky. “I know.” He disentangled himself, stood up, straight and stiff as a lightning rod. Squared his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Steve bounced to his feet and took a couple steps back, to give him space.

Standing with his profile turned to Steve, Bucky proceeded to divest himself with clinical efficiency. Expression turned blank, face turned down.

Steve’s chest split in two, gaping open right in the middle. In the past, Bucky had liked to tease, whenever they were alone. He’d look Steve in the eye from under his lashes, half-smile devious, tempting, the living image of perfection, of everything that was beautiful and worthy of devotion in the world. He’d take off each piece of clothing slowly, unhurried, enjoying the way fabric slid over his skin, liking the way Steve would watch, adoring and reverent.

It wasn’t even sexual, though sometimes it was. Steve _saw_ Bucky, too. They bared their bodies to each other, and in doing so bared their hearts, their souls.

Now, as he removed piece after piece of his clothes, it was like he…wasn’t there. He didn’t even sit to unlace his boots, instead crouching to take them off, balancing on one feet in turns. His bare toes curled rigidly when they touched the floor, then uncurled slowly, the movement deliberate and stuttered, as if hard to perform. He was preparing to…Steve couldn’t even allow the thought to take form. About what had been done to Bucky’s body, how many times he had known what was going to happen.

Hot tears burning behind his eyes, Steve swallowed glass and gravel, locked all his muscles in place, forced himself to keep his eyes open, to keep Bucky safe, cradle him with his gaze, as Bucky had done before.

“Buck.” He pitched his voice low, soothing. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

Standing back up, Bucky met Steve’s gaze and took a deep breath, mouth half open in surprise. “Alright.” More a sigh, a bit of air, than a spoken word.

His gaze stayed with Steve’s as he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall. Something passed over his face—shame, embarrassment, fear—when his hands grabbed the edge of his henley.

“I don’t care what you look like, Buck.” He loved Bucky in every form, he loved every shape and shade of Bucky, always.

An old spark glinted in Bucky’s eyes, mouth curling in the shadow of a familiar, beloved smirk. “You’ve seen the bones, guess the wrapping can’t be worse than that.”

A startled laugh escaped Steve’s chest. “The wrapping?”

Bucky shrugged, shook his head, and whipped the henley over his head. Met Steve’s gaze again, shame still there. “It happened a long time ago.” Then he turned away, ripping a sob from Steve’s throat. The mess of scars. The pain, the violation they represented. Covering his mouth with one hand, Steve fell to his knees.

He wanted to scream, roar to the skies, burn the world down. He gripped his own face with all his strength, fingers digging into his cheeks until it hurt, silent tears spilling over his hand, rocking back and forth.

“Steve, no, shh, please.” In an instant, Bucky was kneeling in front of him. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.”

Steve didn’t have words. What could he say that wouldn’t be useless, empty, meaningless? All of this had happened, he couldn’t change any of it. Couldn’t go back and save Bucky.

He was so completely, utterly useless. Bucky wouldn’t have been on that train if it wasn’t for _him_ , for his stupid, pathetic ego, always wanting to be a big hero, fulfill his duty, save humanity. Fuck humanity, fuck it a thousand times. He should have saved _Bucky_. What did humanity matter, what did _Steve_ matter, if he hadn’t protected the one person he should have, the one person that was his whole world.

“No, Steve, no.” Bucky clasped Steve’s head and brought their foreheads together, forcing him to remove his hand from his face. “You did the right thing. You wouldn’t be _you_ if you hadn’t.”

Fuck, he’d been talking out loud. “I’d trade anything, _everything_ , to spare you from…all of it.”

“I know.” Bucky closed his eyes, breath ghosting over Steve’s face. “I know, Steve. And that’s enough.”

“Can…” He didn’t deserve it, but. “Can I touch you?”

Bucky nodded. Keeping their foreheads together, closing his own eyes, Steve brought his hands up and brushed Bucky’s hair back, running his fingers lightly between the cascade of dark strands, hooking the locks gently behind his ears. Outlined his cheekbones with his thumbs, traced skin soft and warm as Bucky sighed, and Steve dared to get a little closer, nuzzle his cheek, then his temple. He deposited a kiss there, murmuring “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, ever again.”

“I know.” Bucky lowered his arms and burrowed into Steve, curling his arms around himself, and as Steve embraced him, Bucky’s breath ghosting over his neck, he felt the scars sliding against his arm. Silent witnesses of Bucky’s pain, and also of his resilience. Bucky had never given up, had fought until he’d recovered his freedom.

Was still fighting, standing, caring about others, telling Steve to not feel bad, protecting Steve as he’d done his whole life. Tightening his arms a little, his lips close to Bucky’s ear, he said, “You’re amazing, Buck. You don’t know that, you don’t believe it, but I’ll remind you of it every day, for how long we still have left in this world.”

“Steve…” He turned his face and buried it into Steve’s neck, a convulsion like a sob shaking his body.

“Until the end of the line, Buck.” _I love you_.

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky murmured, painting Steve’s skin with his words. And Steve could hear it, _I love you too_ , engraved on the spot where his shoulder met his neck.

After Bucky calmed down enough—and Steve too, if he was being honest with himself, which, well, wasn’t _unheard of_ —they stood up, and Bucky finished undressing, down to his boxers. No blankness absence this time, even though he was…very efficient. He kept glancing at Steve, and Steve smiled encouragingly.

Taking Bucky’s hand, he towed him to the bathroom. There was barely space for the two of them, but thankfully Bucky didn’t seem to mind being close to him at the moment. Steve turned the shower to the hottest setting and waited for the water to steam. Bucky stood at attention behind him, silent, as if awaiting orders. Once again, Steve wanted to carve his own heart out with a rusted knife.

“You used to draw the bath for me, do you remember?” His attempt to distract Bucky and bring him back to the present was clumsy, pathetic, but Bucky hummed, thoughtful. “We didn’t always have money to pay to heat the water, but when we did, you insisted I got the first bath.”

“Yeah.” Bucky squinted at him. “Otherwise you’d get sick, you punk.” He put his shoulder on the door jamb, crossing his arms and lifting one foot to rest against it. “Steve Pain In My Ass Rogers.”

Melting with happiness at the sight of Bucky relaxed and teasing, Steve threw his head back and laughed. “Jerk.” Steam finally billowed from the shower, so he tilted his head towards it, forestalling the jab Bucky surely was about to throw back. “I think it’s hot enough.”

“I…” Bucky straightened, body going a bit rigid as he looked at the shower enclosure, then at Steve. He swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”

Gently, Steve clasped Bucky’s arm. “I’m here, I’m gonna stay here until you tell me to leave, alright?”

Bucky took a big, slow, deep breath, nodded. “Alright.” Without a by-your-leave, he hooked his thumbs on his boxers, slid them down his legs and took them off. When he straightened up, he met Steve’s wide-eyed gaze, his parted mouth, and _blushed_. “Uh. I. Is this okay?” He looked down at his nakedness and bit his lip. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 _Oh Jesus Christ_. “If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me, Buck.”

At that, Bucky looked up, expression half-challenge. Half…doubt. “You can look. If you want.”

“I want.” The words escaped before his brain processed any of what was happening. He did want, so much. Lust curled in his belly, but also so much longing. He wanted to relearn Bucky, to know by memory every line and scar and slope of his body, his being. This being that had been cut and reshaped and sharpened away from Steve, and yet was still Bucky, still the person Steve loved so much, Steve’s only reason to exist. “I knew you as you were before. I want to know _this_ you, as you are now.”

Eyes darkening, Bucky took Steve’s hand in his metal hand and put it over his flesh shoulder. Pressed Steve’s palm there, firm and gentle, then released it. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

Breathless, Steve left his hand there for a moment, feeling Bucky’s warmth, the goosebumps prickling over his skin. Slowly, gently, he ran his hand down Bucky’s arm, relaxed and loose at his side. He mapped the muscles, the curves, the hollows of his elbow and the knobs of his wrist. Enveloped his fingers, squeezing a little, all of Bucky’s skin so soft and warm.

As steam surrounded them, the humid, warm and protective fog created a pocket universe that belonged only to the two of them, where they were safe, together, hidden away from time, sorrow, loss. Steve kept looking up to Bucky’s face, checking in, attuned to the rhythm of his breath, the line of his shoulders, the position of his legs. He’d stop at the barest sign of discomfort, but for now everything between them was stillness, trust, quietness.

His hand traveled the inverse path, up Bucky’s flesh arm, and over his chest. Bucky packed a lot more bulk now, chest muscled and strong, skin smooth until the scars met his fingers. Steve mapped the angry topography, trembling. Searched for Bucky’s storm-gray eyes. “Does it hurt?”

“Not the scars, no.” Voice husky, lips shiny, hooded eyes, Bucky looked…turned on. He opened his stance, planted his feet. Steve’s gaze tumbled down, down. Bucky wasn’t hard, but his skin was flushed. He wasn’t telling Steve to stop.

Traversing his hand to the metal shoulder, Steve asked, “Do you feel anything here?”

“Not really. Pressure, temperature, if extreme.” He shrugged. “The fingers have better sensors.”

Steve looked at the arm as he slid his hand over it. Markings on the plates aligned on a line from his shoulder to his wrist, symbols that Steve had never seen before. Bucky shuddered when Steve ran his fingertips over them. “Bad,” he gasped and Steve immediately lifted his hand away. “Don’t stop. Just…not there.”

“Okay.” Steve touched the metal hand, clasped Bucky’s fingers gently on his own. “Here?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “That’s okay.”

“Can you feel this?” He brought Bucky’s hand to his lips and kissed a knuckle, gently. The entire arm glistened from the steam, the fingers fogged by Steve’s breath.

“Yes.” Breathless. He closed his eyes, and it was so much trust—to close his eyes while standing naked, so vulnerable, Steve choked. He kissed each knuckle in turn, the metal warming under his lips. The arm’s plates shifted and whirred.

“Sorry.” Bucky pressed his lips between his teeth.

“It’s okay, Buck. It’s part of you. I don’t—” _Love it any less_. Nope, he wouldn’t say it until Bucky was ready, no matter how much it burned his chest and tried to escape his lips. “It’s okay.”

Keeping his left hand laced with Bucky’s right, he allowed himself a moment to just look. Bucky was still the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. His long hair was a bit tangled, dark and luscious, and Steve again touched it, ran his fingers through the strands. Bucky pressed against the touch, like a lost dog, the gesture making Steve burn white-hot with love and sorrow and the need to hug him, to hide him inside his own skin, under his own bones where he’d be safe, and never let go.

But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t take more than what Bucky had freely offered. He slid his fingers to Bucky’s face, the beloved face he’d never forgotten, the face that was the first thing he saw in the morning when he woke up, before he opened his eyes, and the last thing he thought about before he fell asleep. Every day, every night, he was sure that even while he’d been in the ice, he’d dreamed about Bucky.

Brows, cheekbones. The jaw, the dimple on his chin, the side of his neck, the terrain familiar and also not, all of it Steve mapped with his touch, trying to convey how perfect and breathtaking Bucky was, without words. Down the center of Bucky’s chest, to his stomach. He wanted to keep going down, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until Bucky said he wanted that. “Will you turn around for me? Is that okay?”

Bucky lowered his head, opened his eyes and looked at their linked hands. He seemed unsure.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Buck.”

“I don’t want to scare you,” he gritted out. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Nothing about you will ever scare me.” He tightened his grip on Bucky’s fingers.

“Guess not.” His gaze turned a bit sad, but his lips curled up in the ghost of a smile. And then he turned, head bowed, hair parting around his neck.

Steve let go of Bucky’s hand and swallowed hard. The scars on his back were even worse. Deeper, wider, longer, spider-webbing from his metal shoulder all down his left flank. Red, bitter, jagged and open-mouthed, they looked horrifyingly painful. And yet.

Worse, much worse, worse than anything Steve could have ever imagined, the symbols carved along his spine. From the base of his neck to his tailbone, carved deeply and precisely, the same marks as his metal arm, inscribed into Bucky’s flesh.

Steve lay his palm over the first inscription, wishing he could absorb into himself all the pain this must have caused.

“Aren’t you going to ask what they are?” Bucky rasped, voice rough. Steve felt Bucky’s heart beating rapidly, chaotically, under his palm.

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not gonna ask.”

Bucky sagged, and only then Steve realized he’d been rigid, tense. Waiting. For judgment or repulsion or intrusive questions, Steve didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Bucky would never get any of those things from him, no matter what.

Gently, slowly, lovingly, he mapped Bucky’s back too, sliding his palm all over it, checking in, paying attention to Bucky’s breathing. He stopped at the dip of his back, going back up towards his sides. And he tried, he really did, but couldn’t help but steal a glance of Bucky’s ass. It was even rounder than before, packed with muscle and Steve’s fingers twitched over Bucky’s waist.

“Tickles,” Bucky huffed, still as a statue.

Steve couldn’t pass the opportunity. “What, this?” He twitched his fingers again, purposefully, looking for the exact spot that used to make Bucky contort and run away, conceding defeat.

“Yes.” But he didn’t move.

“Here?” Steve did it again, bringing his other hand to squeeze Bucky’s opposite side. Bucky had never been able to withstand that.

Still, Bucky didn’t move, but a moan left his mouth. Steve froze. This was new. “Buck?”

“Do it again.”

His own dick twitching in his boxers, Steve tickled Bucky’s sides and another strangled moan erupted from Bucky’s throat. Labored, heavy breaths moved his chest, even while he didn’t budge an inch.

 _Oh Jesus fuck._ Steve wanted to step forward and do it while rutting into Bucky’s back, wanted to lick and bite his neck, wanted to drink his moans from his lips, wanted to have Bucky under him, at his mercy. Wanted to worship him like he used to, with lips and tongue and teeth.

He wanted, he wanted and his blood burned with want, but Bucky wasn’t ready. They hadn’t even kissed. So he waited for Bucky’s guidance, and sure enough, a beat later he murmured, “I think I’m going to shower now.”

The shower. Steve had forgotten completely and absolutely about the shower, forgotten about the universe and everything that wasn’t contained by Bucky’s skin. He was really proud and grateful for his _great strategic mind—_ he always rolled his eyes at that one, since his strategy, as Bucky had pointed out, was usually reckless and hurried—for having thought of booking a place where they wouldn’t run out of hot water. The gas heater was a bit slow to start and heat the water, but once it got going, it would keep going until, apparently, the end of times.

Or the gas ran out, whatever came first.

Bucky approached the shower enclosure slowly. They could see the water was hot, steam billowing from it and at this point choking the small bathroom, but he lifted a hand cautiously to test it before he entered. Nodding, he murmured to himself, “It’s okay, it’s hot,” and Steve’s heart broke anew.

“Yeah, Buck, it’s hot. Only the best for my best guy.” His smile was sad, it hurt. Bucky turned his profile to him and smiled back, reflecting the same sadness and pain.

And he stepped in, stood under the spray, planted his feet.

A shudder went down his body in a tidal wave. For a moment he didn’t move, rigid, muscles clenched so hard Steve could see clearly every slope and curve, every detail savagely brought to life.

“Tell. Me. A story.” Asked through gritted teeth. Hands stuttering between closing into tight fists and stretching the fingers in trembling signs.

“Once upon a time,” Steve began immediately, voice shaking. “Two friends lived in Brooklyn. They didn’t even know they were friends yet, but that would soon change. They met on a sunny day—”

Bucky snorted and his posture relaxed fractionally. “In a dirty alley.”

“You remember that?” Steve beamed.

“How I found your sorry ass having the daylights beaten out of it and saved you?” He shuddered, smirked and reached for the soap. “Vaguely.”

“I had them on the ropes!” His face stretched into a grin, his soul delighted by the familiar words and the answer he knew was coming.

Bucky didn’t disappoint. “Sure you did.” Exasperated fondness colored his expression, making Steve’s heart ache with nostalgia and gratitude because Bucky was here, alive. Changed, sure, as Steve had also changed. Time and pain and loss had irrevocably changed them. The core of who they were, however, remained.

“Tell me the rest of the story,” Bucky asked while slathering himself with soap, and nope, Steve wasn’t looking at him like that. Wasn’t thinking about how the suds and water slid luscious and syrupy over Bucky’s skin, how he’d have given almost anything to follow those paths with his tongue.

“Steve.” Bucky’s gaze hadn’t left Steve’s face. Steve hoped the steam disguised a little the flaming on his cheeks.

“Uh, sorry, got a little distracted.” And breathless and hard. But he wasn’t going to mention those particular details.

“I can see that.” Oh, how Steve wanted to lick and bite that sexy, knowing smirk. “Still waiting for the story.”

Taking a deep, centering breath, Steve proceeded to tell Bucky how they’d met and become inseparable, filling in the holes and blank spaces in Bucky’s stitched-together memories.

Bucky smiled a lot, relaxed and at ease under the water, and Steve managed to only get lost in thoughts of kneeling in the shower and sucking Bucky’s dick twice.

Maybe three times.

*****

Bucky really shouldn’t, but he liked to see Steve flushed. He liked it a whole lot, Steve’s cheeks pink with a blush so beautiful it was a weapon of mass destruction.

Of Bucky’s self control, at least.

When Steve blushed like that, all Bucky wanted was to _eat_ him, to lick and bite and mark and consume Steve. Bucky’s dick hadn’t announced any particular interest in the proceedings, at least not yet, but this arousal went beyond body. Bucky wanted to devour Steve’s whole being and make him a part of himself.

Which was probably all kinds of fucked up, and it wouldn’t have bothered Bucky much, since there wasn’t anything in him that wasn’t fucked up—except maybe his devotion to Steve. He’d give himself that. His devotion was honest and right, even if it was selfish. He couldn’t _live, couldn’t breathe_ if Steve wasn’t alive and safe and happy.

But. He wanted to eat Steve alive, and when he felt like that he utterly forgot all the reasons why he couldn’t, shouldn’t.

 _Not allowed_.

Not allowed, and yet he forgot. This was bad, this was really bad. He was so, so fucked, utterly and completely fucked.

He needed to focus on the _keep Steve safe_ part.

After his shower, he told Steve to go to sleep. He could see dark, tired shadows under his eyes. If the serum wasn’t healing it, Steve was way past his limits.

Of course the giant dumbass tried to argue. “What about—” A jaw-cracking yawn. “You?”

“I’ll keep watch for a while.”

“But—”

“Not up for discussion.” His stony-silent-Winter-Soldier-glare finally won. Probably because Steve was so tired even his stubbornness was about to collapse in itself, but whatever.

Steve huffed and lay down on his bed, burying his giant face in his pillow. Bucky sat on his own bed, gaze trained on the windows, watching Steve from the corner of his eye. A minute and seventeen seconds later Steve was snoring lightly. Bucky remembered this. His bones had kept this memory, hidden away where it couldn’t be taken from him. It was the same as before, when they lived together.

Bucky ended up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of _home_.

*****

The dream was soft, slow, rich like honey and the deep reds of summer.

Bucky knew this was a dream because in the dream, he kissed Steve, sweet, touched his face gently, reverently, worshiping him like the sun-god he was, and it was allowed, it was right.

He watched his hand slide over Steve’s shoulder, his chest, until. Suddenly, his hand wasn’t flesh anymore. He’d forgotten. He was made of metal and bone and darkness and his touch left marks, black cursed marks all over Steve’s skin, the same symbols that marred his own body, his damned soul. Steve’s eyes lost their light, became opaque, empty. His mouth opened in silent horror as black, oily filaments stretched from Bucky’s fingers and tangled around Steve’s limbs, tarnished his golden skin with dark gray.

Steve crumbled to dust, ashes falling between Bucky’s fingers.

 _No, no, no, please no_.

Falling. Ashes falling. Bucky falling. A hand, a beloved face left behind, screaming his name as he tumbled to Hell.

He braced, he knew what was coming, impact, pain, blood, body and soul annihilation. The destruction, the nothingness in the end.

Curled in a tight ball, he swallowed a sob. And another, another, another, as familiar grief and fear took hold of him in a wave of abject misery. He was going to die. Be reborn again. In Hell. Made into a thing, an amorphous, terrifying thing, forged in misery and pain and death.

A hand on his shoulder. “Buck?” So gentle, so light. “It’s me. It’s Steve.” As if he wouldn’t know that hand, the familiar weight and curve of those fingers. And the voice, the voice he’d heard for so long while he’d slowly and brutally lost himself. The voice that had been the last thing to go, before he’d plunged into the Nothing. “You’re safe.”

 _No, Steve, go away. I don’t want you to see, I don’t want you to know._ But he wasn’t strong enough to say it. If he opened his mouth, the screams would take shape, would sever the night with the last, dying cry of a wounded animal.

Fingers carding his hair. “Buck. It’s okay. Wake up.”

He shook his head. Another sob climbed up his muscles, got locked by his teeth.

Steve lay down behind him, encircling him with warmth, his forehead resting against the back of Bucky’s head. “I’m here. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you, not ever again.” A whispered oath. Behind the words, the wrath of an angry, merciful god, and Bucky believed, for a moment he believed.

The arms around him squeezed tighter, his back protected, his bones slowly seeping Steve’s heat. For the first time ever in his memory, Bucky felt truly, completely safe.

And he finally cried.

All the misery, sorrow, the grief for himself and the life ripped away from him. For Steve’s pain, his loneliness, Bucky’s lost memories. Each one of his victims, murdered and left soulless, or Gods know what even worse fate he’d brought upon them. He cried it all.

Cried until it hurt and he couldn’t stop. An inexhaustible well of tears and sadness surged from the wreckage inside his chest, cleaving his soul open, vomiting out seventy years of suffering.

Through it all, Steve held him. Beacon, harbor, refuge. Light in the darkness. Steve.

**Art by** [leathermouthed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/pseuds/leathermouthed)

Greedy, selfish, Bucky took it, the warmth, the peace, the space to be, just be, for a while. After he was done crying, all he wanted was to sleep for a century, in Steve’s arms.

_Not allowed_ , never allowed.

Stolen.

Exhausted to the marrow of his old bones, he got up, away from Steve. It felt like ripping out another part of his soul, but he would do it, for Steve he’d cut his soul into ribbons and smile while he did it.

He didn’t want to admit, not even to his fucking self, how terrified he was that the dream had been a glimpse into his future. His soul died another bit as he remembered how he’d tainted Steve, how he’d crumbled and disappeared.

Numb, he sat on the floor, back to the wall, looking out the windows. Looking at his bed made his skin crawl.

As he folded his legs up to rest his forearms on his knees, he expected Steve to fight, to judge, to question. To ask him back to bed, to be hurt by Bucky’s rejection.

But Steve didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for anything. He just sat by his side on the floor, keeping watch, silent in the darkness, a shadow within the shadows, and it hurt more than anything, how much Bucky didn’t deserve Steve.

Side by side, shoulders touching, seconds and minutes dripped away, tumbling towards oblivion. Bucky tried to refuse, he did. He failed, of course. He couldn’t outstubborn Steve. Every inch he moved away, Steve immediately covered, saying with his body _I’m here. I won’t go away_. _I won’t abandon you_.

Eventually, exhaustion won over.

Bucky fell again, this time asleep to a dreamless rest, dark and quiet.

When he woke up, startled by the peacefulness suffusing his being, Steve and him were slumped towards each other, Steve’s golden head heavy on his shoulder. Feeling empty, tired, he let Steve sleep a while longer, watched the sun rise.

It wasn’t as bright or as beautiful as Steve. Nothing would ever be.

Bucky would miss his starlight when he inevitably was devoured again by the darkness. Even if he forgot, if he was ripped from himself once more, Steve’s light was etched in his bones as certainly as the cursed symbols. It had been there, even when he hadn’t known he’d been lost. That would never change.

Steve would forever be part of him, light inside the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	6. Thousand Voices Dead At My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very grumpy breakfast. Hell reaches for Bucky, but he won't go back without a fight.

Grumpy was Bucky’s default morning setting, it had always been. Steve had become a morning person after the serum gave him boundless energy and life gave him unending restlessness, what with all the ghosts and duties he carried around.

But this morning, after sleeping sitting on the floor, that having happened after, well, _everything_ that came before, Jesus. This morning his very blood was made of grumpy tiredness.

The other body of grumpiness currently occupying the pickup had grunted something maybe resembling “Morning,” when they’d stretched up from the floor. Maybe.

It could just as easily have been “Fuck everything,” Steve wasn’t sure.

He also didn’t care. Too grumpy and tired for that.

“Bacon,” Steve snarled to the road. “We need bacon.”

“And eggs,” grumpy body number two snarled back, helpfully.

Outstanding idea, really. Steve’s great strategic mind could always recognize a good idea, even when drowning in grumpiness. It devised a great strategic plan: stop by a cafe, get some good, honest, greasy bacon and egg sandwiches to go.

And sweet pastries.

And coffee.

Truly, fucking greatest strategic mind of a generation.

Execution was impeccable, of course. Bucky found a suitably greasy joint frequented by local workers. Steve left the grumpy blob watching the truck and went in to get their sandwiches—hot, very hot, thank the fucks—plus some very good looking local pastries called kiffles, filled with assorted colorful jams, golden and crispy. And a full thermos of blessed coffee.

Steve felt his soul slowly returning to his body just thinking about the magnificent breakfast they were about to enjoy.

Getting a very thick, very sweet, very dark hot chocolate for Bucky definitely anchored his wayward soul back into his bones.

When he got back and offered the cardboard cup for Buck, he eyed it suspiciously. “Wasthis,” he mumbled.

“Poison,” Steve grumbled back. “Just take it.”

Glaring daggers, Bucky took the cup and sniffed it. Steve pretended not to notice the micro-widening of his eyes, or the way his nose twitched hopefully. _Target acquired_. Bucky took a careful, slow sip. A strangled sound vibrated on his throat. As he took more sips, savoring it, cheeks turning rosy with the drink’s warmth, happiness sparkled in his gaze, pulled the corner of his lips up in a slight smile. _Mission accomplished_.

Besides grumpy-morning guy, Bucky still was a sweet-tooth guy, it seemed. Hot chocolate had been a rare treat back when they…back, before everything. Shared, same as every good and bad thing they’d ever had.

Often had Steve wished he could buy a giant hot chocolate for his best guy.

What would you know, it just took seventy years of unspeakable torture and coming back from icy death, and he got his wish.

_Still grumpy, huh_.

Whatever. He folded himself into the pickup, delivering his precious cargo to the middle of the seat. Finally, finally, after fumbling with the bag and foil and paper napkins, he bit into a gloriously greasy bacon and egg sandwich.

“Oh my god,” he garbled around a mouthful, eyes closed in ecstasy.

“Gross,” Bucky said, voice weirdly low.

“C’mon, Buck, try one.” He shoved the bag towards him. “It will banish the grumpiness right out of your body.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he said as he reached for a sandwich, after carefully depositing his drink on the cup holder.

Steve didn’t want to waste shoving-bacon-and-eggs-into-his-face-time to argue such a ridiculous point, so he arched a _really_ brow while steadily decimating his sandwich.

“Shut up.” Bucky started his own decimation with a hearty, thoughtful bite. His eyes widened, bite quickly followed by another, and another. He’d devoured half the giant sandwich when he admitted with a sigh, “You may have a point.”

Once the sandwiches admitted defeat and surrendered, shortly the pastries and coffee suffered the same fate: making two tired, grumpy supersoldiers very happy and a lot less grumpy.

Worthy, noble sacrifice, Steve could say. He knew a thing or two about those, he thought, glancing briefly at the piece of his soul sitting next to him.

“What?” Bucky grumbled without heat, spine curved lazy against the door, arm over the back of the seat.

_You’re amazing. I’ve missed you. I’m so happy you’re here by my side. I’m really proud of you. I love you_. “Nothing.”

Narrowing his eyes a fraction,Bucky tilted his head the slightest angle, watching Steve through his lashes, right corner of his sweet mouth curled up almost imperceptibly. “Mmm.” His whole face was a study on micro-expressions. “Nothing.”

Weirdly, it sounded like _me too_.

*****

_Longing_.

Inside his head, voices. A roar. Tendrils, oily, black, gurgling into his skull. Poison. A voice, a voice that sounded like lashes to his flesh, like stripping him from his skin.

_Rusted_.

Darkness seeped from the voice, from his bones, cutting him open, making him bleed.

_Furnace_.

The dark, the dark, the dark. Fingers into his eyes, delving into his mouth. The soul collector screamed. No one could hear him.

_Daybreak_.

Uselessly, he covered his ears with his hands. Human hands, how, why hadn’t he died. The repulsing coils reached for him, from him, Hell coming for him, dragging him back. “Stop, _please_ stop!”

“Bucky! What’s wrong?”

Another voice. Far away, so far away. Steve, he remembered Steve.

“Bucky!”

_I will find you_. _You belong to me_.

No.

Steve, he belonged to Steve. He was in the car, with Steve. In the car. The car stopped.

Screaming, thrashing, Bucky stumbled out and fell to his knees. He wanted to get this _thing_ out of his being, away from him.

“Alone,” he rasped. “Leave me…” Words bled out his throat like knives. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

_You are tainted. Made of darkness. Come back_.

“No.” Hands clenching painfully into fists, curling on himself tightly, Bucky screamed again, a garbled sound of fury and desperation. “No.”

“Buck, _Bucky_.” Steve crashed to his knees by his side, touched his shoulder. “I’m here. You’re safe. Stay with me.”

Instinctively, Bucky trapped Steve’s name behind his teeth. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let the darkness know.

A pause. Searching coils, prodding his mind, slithering between his thoughts. He shielded his memories of Steve with his deepest fears, the most horrific things he could remember, encased Steve’s light inside the shadows of his misery.

Pain. Alone. Cold. Dark. Flesh being cut, carved, marked forever.

His soul, being cut, carved, marked forever.

The tendrils lost their way, darkness dissolving into Bucky’s own shadows.

_Whoever is there, you’re a danger to them_. _Your soul is rotten, you’ll corrupt them too. Condemn them to the same fate_.

His vision dimmed, the grass and woods by the road replaced by memories of his nightmare—Steve’s skin washed out in gray, dead empty eyes, his agonized face as he crumbled to dust.

The tendrils slid almost lovingly over his skin, caring and affectionate.

Bucky retched.

_Come back and I’ll spare them_.

Lies, his bones said. The bones knew. Lies.

“Fuck—” He called upon his will, his strength, the feeling of being under his sun, so bright and true. His darkness could protect the light. He’d protect the sun. He wouldn’t go back. Suddenly, suddenly he could feel Steve’s hand on his shoulder, warm, solid, strong. For a moment, other voices crackled on the background, diffuse and full of static like mixed radio stations. Everything he was, his love for Steve, his very soul, went supernova around them, severing the connection between him and the voices, the tendrils. “—you. _Fuck you_.”

Once again, he collapsed over Steve’s knees. This time, however, he threw his arms around him, clutching Steve’s left shoulder and the back of his neck tightly, anchoring himself to his giant bulk, his welcoming warmth. Steve’s arms closed the circle as their foreheads touched. Wetness trailed down his cheeks and he realized he’d been crying, his throat scraped raw, his hands hurting from clenching too hard.

“I’m back,” he croaked. “I’m back.”

“Are you alright?” Steve buried his fingers softly on Bucky’s hair, tucking it away from his face.

“I don’t know.” A shuddering sigh bubbled up from the depths of his tiredness, whispered through his lips like a sob. “We need to go.”

Wordlessly, Steve got up and offered him a hand. Bucky took it, shameless, allowed Steve to help him, allowed himself to be helped. Allowed Steve to tug him to a hug, hid his face on Steve’s neck, inhaled a lungful of _home-safe-belong_ that settled him back to his bones like nothing else ever could.

Hell had reached for him again. Wanted him back.

But this time, this time he had Steve by his side. Had Steve to fight for, to protect.

Bones and flesh and darkness, he belonged to Steve. He wouldn’t go back to Hell.

*****

Back in the truck, Steve made him drink water—his throat was immensely grateful for the cool liquid, which also helped ground him back to the present moment—and take a few deep breaths, before he turned the engine on and took them out of there as if hellhounds were on their trail.

Not that far from the truth, was it.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Steve’s patient, non-demanding tone dragged the words out from Bucky like a magnet.

“Someone is trying to take me back.”

The steering wheel cried a pitiful noise under the pressure of Steve’s fingers. “ _Nobody_ will take you anywhere, unless you want to go.”

Bucky shivered. He knew this tone. This was Steve-Do-Not-Fuck-With-Me-Rogers speaking, all softness stored away behind righteous steel and fire.

“We need the wheel, easy there.” He put his hand over Steve’s, drawing a soft caress on his white knuckles. Steve gulped a heavy, slow breath, flexing and relaxing his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. I promised, remember?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, voice rough as he nodded.

Bucky let his hand fall to rest on Steve’s knee, keeping them both grounded by touch. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, the reassurance as much for himself as for Steve.

As Steve drove, silence filled the empty spaces of the truck, built of worry and fear but also patience and trust. Bucky’s eyes wandered the rapid swatches of landscaping going by the window, gaze unfocused. Why was this happening now? Why hadn’t they come back for him before?

Something, a wisp of memory, of knowledge, danced at the edges of his memory, illusive and vanishing.

Why now.

Why not before.

He repeated the words in his head like a mantra, chanting it to summon the memory wisp into the light. Why, why, why.

Slowly it took form, thread by thread, until words started pouring out of his mouth.

“After they got me, after—” He swallowed glass and razor wire, his heart still bleeding for his younger self, for everything he went through, for the brave, poor soldier that died so long ago. “—after the fall. The marks on my arm, on my skin—” He closed his eyes. It was worse, all he could see was the table where they carved him, over and over and over. Better to keep his gaze on his hand over Steve’s knee. _I am here. Steve’s here. We’re okay_. “They took bits of my soul and imprisoned them into summoning stones. Each mark is a word. Words they can use to control me.”

He risked a look at Steve’s face. Tears ran down his cheeks, even as he kept driving, fingers carefully loose on the wheel. Bucky’s body hardened, petrified with regret, shame and guilt. He couldn’t stand to cause Steve this pain.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I shouldn’t—”

“I can take it,” Steve interrupted, voice choked and raw. “You went through it, the very least I can do is listen.” He turned to Bucky for a moment, eyes red. “Please let me be here for you, Buck.”

“For the love of the underworld Gods.” Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed, deep and weary. “Alright. The stones can be used to hurt me, make me feel indescribable pain. If it goes too far, it’d kill me. They tried _that_ at first, thinking I’d agree to do what they wanted.” A bitter laugh punctuated his words, clanging against his teeth. “They didn’t understand that I’d rather be dead. I never relented. I hoped every day they’d go too far.”

An animal sound erupted from Steve’s chest. Bucky just squeezed his knee.

“They didn’t want to kill me, of course. Lose their asset. So they got creative.” Bucky’s grip would have crushed a normal person’s bones, but not even the thought of Steve’s pain helped him loosen his fingers. “You know about the chair. The brainwashing.”

“Yes.” A barely there croak.

“They still used the stones to locate and summon me. When called, I’d return to them by any means—even walking for days or weeks or however long, no matter the distance. I wasn’t able to stop at anything, before I got back and answered the summons.” His stomach turned on himself, his skin crawling. Hydra had used the stones often, almost every time they’d sent him on a mission. At first, because he kept trying to get away, refused to come back. Later on, once he’d been broken, forgotten himself, once he didn’t even know what escaping meant, they used the stones to make him return faster, or just for sport.

For the “fun” of making him suffer.

“I need to stop.” Steve parked abruptly on the roadside again, turned the engine off, turned to Bucky, eyes liquid, bright with tears and rage. “Can I hug you?”

Bucky nodded, and instantly found himself enveloped by strong, giant arms, protected in a warm space he didn’t ever want to leave again. Steve’s head came to rest on the crook of his neck as his own arms enclaved Steve’s frame in a strangling clasp. It was like being adrift in a hurricane and finding anchor, refuge from the gale. Hiding his face on the continent that was Steve’s chest, he took deep breaths, filling himself with his scent, only then realizing how close to the razor sharp line of losing his shit he’d been.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” The mantra worked, calmed him a little, and he felt Steve’s muscles relax fractionally. “I have the stones. I killed them all,” he said cheerfully and maybe a little manically. It always cheered him up to remember he’d killed every last motherfucker who’d used the summoning stones.

“Good,” Steve thundered. “Too bad I didn’t get to help you, but good.”

“Not that I need your help,” Bucky smiled when Steve snorted as he intended, “but you may get your chance. There’s one handler who managed to escape. I couldn’t find this fucker. I thought he was dead.”

“He’s trying to take you back.” Barely contained violence reverberated with Steve’s words, his arms tightening around Bucky.

“Yeah.” His memories of the voice weren’t all there. But there was something familiar about the way it resonated inside his skull and made his bones shudder with repulsion. “I don’t know how he found me. But since it happened immediately after the first time I used my true form since I got away, it must be connected somehow.” He leaned back, clasped Steve’s arms as they faced each other. “He knows the words, Steve. You need to promise me—”

“No.” Swallowing hard, face carved into even harder lines, he pressed his lips into a thin, angry line, shook his head stiffly once. “No.”

“You don’t even—”

“ _No_ , Buck. I won’t kill you. No matter what.” Clasping the nape of Bucky’s neck, Steve pulled him until their foreheads touched. “I won’t let anyone take you back. And I won’t kill you.”

“What if—”

“No.”

Sighing, Bucky went boneless on Steve’s arms. “You’re a mountain of stubbornness, you know that, right.”

“Yes.”

“If he finds me, and uses the words. He—” Bucky scrunched his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. His whole body tensed, tight and almost painful, trembling, not wanting to release the truth. “There’s a blood bond. He can control me. Make me do things.”

Steve’s grip on him turned bruising and Bucky welcomed the forceful reassurance, the fierce tone of the words that Steve brushed near his ear. “I will kill him.”

Torn between wanting Steve nowhere near his own mess and craving his presence, his protectiveness, his _everything_ , Bucky said nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to crawl tenderly over the back of Steve’s neck until they brushed the soft strands of his hair and curled, tangling there. The Mountain of Stubbornness shuddered and didn’t say anything, either.

*****

As soon as they entered the small city where they’d spend the night, Steve asked Bucky to find an ice cream shop.

“We need a break, Buck. A reset,” he explained to the _are-you-drunk_ look Bucky tossed him. “Something nice and sweet, totally unnecessary, absolutely unrelated to murder.”

He didn’t doubt Bucky knew how to kill someone with ice cream, and it possibly didn’t even involve poisoning. It was also a highly improbable murder weapon, and Bucky used to love ice cream. Steve was a big fan himself.

“Maybe.” Bucky scrunched his nose and twisted his lips sideways, doubtfully, but in two minutes he found a place with very good reviews from locals and directed Steve there.

Due to the cold outside, the shop was empty as they gawked at the colorful display, reading the creative flavor names. Steve asked questions about several and tasted some, before deciding on two big cups for each, three flavors, thank you. He chose strawberry and cream, Dutch chocolate, and hazelnut.

“Steve.” Bucky had his arms crossed, annoyance high on his posture and voice, even as he tried—unsuccessfully—to hide the hunger on his gaze as it roamed over the ice cream bins. “We should keep going. We don’t have time for this.”

“If you don’t choose your flavors, I’ll do it for you.” Steve smiled his snake smile, the one he used with politicians and other people to whom he couldn’t say _fuck you_.

As he predicted, Bucky widened his eyes, affronted, then narrowed them. “Stop fucking with me,” he snarled, before turning to the girl behind the counter and ordering mango, zabaione and cheesecake.

Steve stifled a laugh and bumped Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky retaliated with a harder bump, which Steve predicted. He moved a fraction away as Bucky swung towards him, making Bucky lose his balance for a second. Bucky recovered instantly and turned murder eyes on him.

Knowing the threat wasn’t real, Steve’s dick took a very interesting interest on Bucky’s Winter Soldier Murder Glare. He shuddered, heat creeping up his cheeks. Biting his lip, he swallowed, trying to get himself under control, but couldn’t stop imagining Bucky strutting towards him, all decked in black leather, intent in his eyes…

“ _Steve_.” The low growl didn’t help matters. Realizing Bucky’s parted lips, his measured breath, the heated look in his eyes, it all meant he knew where Steve’s thoughts had landed…definitely didn’t help. “Take your ice cream and let’s go,” Bucky snarled and for fuck’s sake, _it did not help_.

Smiling sheepishly at the shop workers, Steve did as he was told and stepped out, welcoming the chill of the night over his heated skin.

“You need to stop doing that,” Bucky growled right beside him.

“ _You_ need to stop doing _that_ ,” Steve growled back in the same low tone, heat curling up his spine all the way to his face, again.

A heartbeat passed as they stared at each other, ice cream slowly melting in its humongous cups, and they burst out laughing together. Like old times, they didn’t need words or explanations. They just _knew_.

Grinning broadly, eyes intent on Bucky’s face, Steve pulled at the invisible thread around his heart, delighted to find warmth and joy at the other end.

Bucky fought the smile tugging at his lips and lost, shaking his head fondly after a moment. “And stop that, too.”

They hadn’t spoken about what it was, maybe afraid of breaking the spell. It felt right, to have that connection. Steve was sure Bucky was as loathe to risk losing it as he was, for all he pretended to be annoyed by it.

“It’s a figment of your imagination,” Steve said and shoved a big spoon of ice cream in his mouth. And oh shit it was so good. “C’mon, eat! Your ice cream is melting.” To prove his point, he pushed Bucky’s cup a fraction, making it drip a little bit over his fingers.

Tactical mistake.

“Indeed.” Bucky smiled wickedly, a smile Steve remembered from their apartment, from private moments stolen in their tent during the war, from queer bars in Brooklyn. Keeping Steve’s gaze captive, he lifted his hand and proceeded to lick and suck his own fingers clean, one by one.

Lust petrified Steve’s body, rooted him to the very molten core of the Earth as he watched Bucky’s pink lips close over his fingers, his tongue darting out now and then to finish the job thoroughly.

He didn’t remember ever wanting something so bad as he wanted those to be _his_ fingers, to delve into Bucky’s mouth and feel his tongue sliding over his skin, Jesus fucking Christ he needed to think of something else or he’d embarrass himself on the sidewalk in front of an ice cream shop.

“Your ice cream is melting,” Bucky said, face deadpan and eyes laughing.

“Crap!” Steve was so flustered he didn’t dare try to repay the favor and give Bucky a show. _He_ was melting, if he started sucking his fingers under Bucky’s heated gaze he’d need new pants before they even got to the hotel. He resigned himself to eating it with the spoon. At least it was very good ice cream.

“C’mon,” Bucky said, eyes still smiling, tilting his head towards the corner where they could see a few trees from the park they’d spotted in the map, while searching for the ice cream. “Let’s stretch our legs.”

There was still a sliver of daylight left, which allowed them to enjoy the stroll among the beautiful yellowing trees, fallen leaves crinkling pleasantly under their steps. After finishing their ice cream, Steve tossed the cups to the trash and took a gamble. He grabbed Bucky’s hand under the guise of dragging him to a secondary path he’d spotted, and didn’t let go.

A sideways glance showed him a smiling Bucky, eyes crinkled indulgently as he curled his fingers around Steve’s and pulled him closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the [Kiffles](https://www.mygourmetconnection.com/hungarian-kiffles/) Steve bought. 
> 
> [Zabaione](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zabaione) is an Italian dessert made with egg yolks, sugar, and sweet wine. It's one of my favorite ice cream flavors. 
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	7. We're So Tired By The Things We Have Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and trust. Bucky asks for help.

Later that night, Bucky pretended everything was fine. Steve needed to rest. Both of them needed to rest, but Bucky knew his own was a lost cause. He slept little and poorly on his best days. On days Hell had reached directly into his skull and tried to drag his soul back…what was even the point.

But for Steve’s sake, he pretended. He hated lying to him, to his fierce, bright Steve, who trusted him and deserved so much better. But Bucky would do anything for Steve, including deceiving him.

Except, apparently, getting the Hell away from him, which was the one thing he really should do and couldn’t.

 _Oh for the love of Charon_. He was tired to the bone, physically, mentally, emotionally. Tired of having always the same fucking internal debates over what he should do. _Focus on what you_ can _do, Barnes_.

Unlike the first hotel, this room was bigger, divided in two separate spaces interconnected by an arched door. The hot shower, protected by the spell of Steve’s presence, was a blessing on his tired and strung tight muscles, on his back, his neck. Switching places once he was done, looking after Steve while Bucky dried and dressed himself was also soothing. It felt like a welcome routine, even after just one night.

Once they were both showered, they sat at the small table and polished off the burgers and fries they’d brought for dinner. After, while Steve gathered the trash and tossed it in the bin, Bucky stayed there, lost in thought. Trying to avoid thinking about oily tendrils, dust and damnation and—

“Buck?” Bucky blinked and found Steve hovering uncertainly near him.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” He forced a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, and Steve noticed, of course he noticed. He frowned and Bucky sighed. “Okay, I’m not alright, but we need to rest anyway. Let’s try to sleep. Go to bed.”

Steve sighed, opened his mouth and then closed it, sighed again. He must be really, really tired, if arguing wasn’t on the cards.

The bed was big enough for a tired supersoldier, maybe too soft, but Bucky enjoyed the fluffy pillows for some reason. He couldn’t make himself get under the covers, never could for as long as he could remember. Back in the apartment, he used a sleeping bag, and before that. Well. Shaking his head to dislodge unwelcome memories of hard, dirty naked floors, of a metal coffin closing over him and being cold, so cold, bones creaking, breath stuttering, mind screaming, soul dying—

 _No. Steve. Hotel room. Safe. Warm. Safe. Steve_.

They could see each other across the arch, so he turned toward Steve’s bed. It was good to be able to see Steve. Reassure himself he was with Steve. Steve was there. They were both safe.

Not so good to be seen by Steve and make him worry. Steve could read him like a book, always had. Even when he was lost, when he wasn’t himself, when he was a _thing_. Steve remembered, Steve knew. Steve had brought him back.

Steve could read him like a book, and comprehend the lines written across his face that spoke of dying alone in the cold.

Bucky turned away. “Good night, Steve.”

A pause, then, “Good night, Buck.”

Using his training, Bucky forced his breath and his heart rate to slow down, feigning sleep. As he expected, it wasn’t long before Steve’s breathing deepened and evened out, giving way to his soft snores. Bucky heaved a sigh of relief. Steve would get his rest.

As for himself…he avoided sleeping for as long as he could, hours, but he was too tired, too dried out of everything. He was finally dragged under.

Under, sleep, dreams, cold, nightmares. Terror. Dark and darkness, corruption and damnation. Tendrils overcoming him, stealing his ability to breathe, to move. Steve’s soul covered in oily corruption, corroded by the evil Bucky brought to him.

In the dark, Steve cried. _Why didn’t you protect me_ , he asked, eyes lifeless, sad and empty as he disintegrated into nothingness.

 _No_. Bucky jolted awake, a scream strangled in his throat.

His gaze immediately went to Steve’s bed, to his giant sleeping form. Bucky shuddered with relief, focusing his breathing to sync with Steve’s snores, in, out, coming back to himself, to the present, little by little.

Exhaustion still gnawed at his bones. He’d give almost anything for a little while of rest, a dreamless sleep like the night before, when he slept on the floor with Steve by his side. Biting his lip, he eyed Steve’s bed.

Maybe…maybe.

Unable to stop himself, he went to sit on the floor by Steve’s bed, back against the wall and arms over his bent knees, eyes roving over mountains of sinewy flesh, miles of golden skin, closed eyes, rosy cheeks, parted lips. A moment later, Steve woke up. For a second blue eyes flashing, body still, coiled muscles, silent cobra ready to strike, kill. Then his gaze found Bucky and he relaxed, a slow exhale, a small sigh.

Steve stretched his hand, silence between them.

 _I could kill you_. Bucky didn’t need to say it, to explain; it was plain in his gaze for Steve to see. The risk, the fear.

The arm didn’t move. “I know.” Quiet, so quiet, so much trust and certainty in two small words.

And Bucky was savagely hungry for it, for a small crumble of peace, of trust. For a quiet rest. If only for a moment, protected, safe, from the nightmares, the pain, even from himself and the monster within.

He was so tired, so infinitely tired.

Slow as if floating in an old dream, Bucky took Steve’s hand, crawled into bed, curled like a sad little spoon. “I’m so tired.” The words escaped through his teeth, rebellious, a barely there murmur that carried the weight of seventy years of terror with it. Steve cradled Bucky with his big spoon body, radiating heat and _home harbor safe_.

“I know,” Steve whispered, forehead against his back. The arm around him squeezed softly, comfort instead of cage. His fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, carding gently, wave after wave of _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay_. “Sleep, Buck. It’s okay,” he murmured, voice already slurred and sleepy.

Everything… slowed, blurred...dissolved. Bit by bit his muscles unwound, his jaw unlocked. Warm and safe in Steve’s arms, Bucky fell to a dreamless sleep.

*

Bucky woke up to the novelty of feeling good. Nothing hurt, and it was a revelation.

Warm, loose, soft, all his edges blurred. He knew all the ugliness of being awake would come crashing down in a second, but for now...For a second he didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move. He just was. A small, sleepy blob of quiet. Steve at his back, soft breath whispering into Bucky’s neck, arm curled protectively around his waist.

Eyes closed, he could sync their bodies, in, out, air and soul and movement, together, impossibly.

It felt too much like addiction, like lies. Like something that would be taken away, ripped from his arms, his heart. He wanted to grip it tightly with greedy arms, eat this feeling whole and make it a permanent part of himself, nested under his ribs.

 _Not allowed_.

Not allowed. Bucky sighed. He had to get up. Careful not to disturb his sleeping sunshine, he disentangled himself from Steve’s arms and got up. All of it tasted of things he shouldn’t even know existed, things that would never reach the depths of Hell where he belonged. It wasn’t allowed, it wasn’t deserved, and he couldn’t afford to pay for it.

Away he went, silent and sad and deadly, to guard Steve’s rest, sitting on the floor by his bed.

That he was allowed, at least.

*

Bucky let Steve sleep for a few more hours. There wasn’t any hurry to get back on the road, after all. As far as they both could tell, they weren’t being followed, and if Captain America _and_ the Winter Soldier hadn’t registered a tail, you could bet your ass there wasn’t any to be found.

Steve’s team was probably keeping their captain posted with any relevant info as well, and as much as Bucky wanted to hate them and dismiss the lot as useless clowns, they were capable and competent. Most important, though, they were very loyal to Steve, and would go to great lengths for him. That, more than anything, had gained Bucky’s respect. And maybe, surprisingly, a bit of trust.

He was as flabbergasted as anyone, truly.

And that was why he ended up thinking of contacting the Falcon. The Widow had seemed accepting of Bucky, and he was sure he could get the archer guy on his side if he cared enough to try. But the Falcon— _Sam_ , the fucker—knew about his kind.

His kind. The mere thought of…others like him. He belonged somewhere. Maybe.

Something lodged in his chest, his gaze sliding over Steve’s sharp lines. No matter how much his fucking programming blared _not allowed_ , he already belonged somewhere. Here. By this giant dumbass’ side. At his six.

In his bed…maybe. No.

 _Not allowed_.

Ugh.

 _Go fuck yourself, brain. Kindly_. Or with a cactus. He didn’t care.

Running a tired hand over his face, Bucky sighed. All he wanted was to crawl back to bed, to Steve’s arms, and live there forever. Or sleep there forever. Either would be an outstanding choice. Since he couldn’t, he tried to use his traitor of a brain for something useful.

Methodically, he went over all the information he had regarding the voices, the tendrils, the handler. He was, reluctantly, starting to appreciate his Winter Soldier person. He knew how to get shit done, was ridiculously competent and frighteningly smart. He’d deserved so much better.

They both did, but things were what they were. _This is our lot. We just have to keep going, pal_. A faint sensation of agreement, of—what the fuck, _pride_ —startled Bucky for a moment. Whatever, he was trained to roll with the punches. Any backup was welcome in sticky situations. So he asked, _what have you got?_

 _“The handler talked to us. We talked to him. We heard other voices. Logic says_ we _can talk to others.”_

Huh. Logic did say that.

Question was, how to test the theory without opening himself to the handler, or even worse, the tendrils? He’d give almost anything to avoid going through that misery again.

Maybe the Falcon— _Sam_ , the fucker—knew something.

And that was how Bucky found himself in possession of the Falcon’s private number, purloined from Steve’s entirely not sufficiently secure phone.

The fact his passcode was James Barnes’ birthday…Bucky didn’t know how he felt about that. Couldn’t decide if it was really stupid or really sweet.

Probably both.

Bucky was still going to give Steve a stern lecture about security once he woke up.

Right now, he was sending the Falcon—Sam—a secure message.

> **Unknown number [05:47]** \- Barnes here. Looking for info. Can you help?
> 
> **The Fucker [05:53]** \- What do you need?

Bucky wasn’t expecting such an open, straightforward answer. A _fuck you_ , maybe. A _where’s Steve_ for sure. He wasn’t about to waste an opening, however, so he carefully redacted a message asking if Sam had found anything else about dullahans.

The very word tasted weird on his mind, tingled under his fingers. There was a name for what he was. There were others. Maybe someday he could meet someone like him…Maybe not. Nobody was really like him, tainted, evil, broken.

He sighed.

And promptly jumped when the screen signaled someone calling him. _Getting rusty there, Winter Soldier_.

A slight sensation of mockery mixed with affront suffused his brain as he stepped outside the room and accepted the call, squinting against the rising sunlight.

“Barnes.”

“No shit,” Sam said dryly. “How’s Steve?”

“Sleeping.”

“Really.” Sam hummed thoughtfully. “That’s good. He never sleeps if he can avoid it. Getting him to stay still and rest for even an hour was a battle when we were on the run.”

“I know that feeling,” Bucky found himself saying. He knew he’d taken care of Steve when they were young, and even though he didn’t remember, the _feel_ of what Sam was describing was as familiar as his own face in the mirror.

“Bet you do.” A small pause. “What do you need, man?”

 _Fuck_.

Bucky hadn’t prepared for this. He didn’t have a clear-cut request in his head, hadn’t thought about specific questions, or how to get relevant info without revealing what he was really after. In a word, he had fucked it up. His gaze roamed the road in front of the hotel, and beyond it, the trees still drowning in fog and the last dregs of darkness crawling over the ground.

“I…” He was still The Fucking Winter Soldier, though. He knew how to adapt and pivot when a mission went FUBAR and he didn’t have enough intel or materiel or what-the-fuck-ever. He scrubbed a hand down his face. Going for honesty was a novelty, but it had worked last time he had contact with Falcon. Sam.

Gritting his teeth, he told Sam the whole story. Or at least, the same things he’d told Steve, plus his newest conclusion. Sam picked up on his intention as soon as he shut his mouth.

“You want to try contacting those other voices.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know they’re not Hydra, working with this handler?”

That was an easy one. “I killed them all.”

“Excuse me?” He could practically hear the noise Sam’s eyebrows screeched on their way up.

“I wasn’t sitting on my ass for two years while you and Steve chased your tails all across Europe,” he growled. “I hunted down and killed all the motherfuckers who had me at one time or another. With extreme prejudice.” Except this last one fucker, but that was a temporary state of affairs.

“Good,” Sam said. Bucky really didn’t expect that, or the approval permeating that single word. “Still, you could have let Steve find you earlier, asshole.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

Sam blew out a sigh. “Alright. So, let’s say you’re right and these other voices are not—”

“They are not.”

“How can you be sure, man? He can have recruited, trained new people.”

“I just know.” He grabbed the back of his own neck, trying to squeeze words, like Steve always did, shook his head to see if it would dislodge some useful thoughts. “They… _feel_ different. There’s no…” _Oily feeling of malice and damnation._ “Evil in them.”

“Hmm.” He hummed as if to say _interesting_ and Bucky remembered Sam was a counselor, practically a therapist.

“What?” he growled. He didn’t have time for this. Why the fuck had he thought calling Sam would be a good idea? “Don’t psychotherapy me.”

“I’m not. It’s just interesting that you’d use that word.” Sam was silent for a beat, two. “I overheard Wyn use that word once, while talking with Ri. Something about what happens when they obliterate you from existence…there’s like, leftover evil? And it goes somewhere. I think. They shut their mouths as soon as I approached.”

That _was_ interesting. It felt like a piece of a puzzle, except he didn’t know what the puzzle looked like or if it existed at all. He filed the intel for later analysis. “Anything about mental communication?”

“Nope, sorry, man.” He sounded like he meant it. “I do remember Riley saying it was hard to…block? No, that wasn’t it. Close barriers, maybe. Yes!” A snap of fingers ringed over the phone. “He complained Wyn was always listening to him, and they told him to stop broadcasting.”

“Stop…broadcasting.” Bucky fought the urge to facepalm. Then he remembered Sam couldn’t see him, and did it, following with a pinch to the bridge of his nose. “How does that help me.”

“I don’t know, Barnes. I wish I did.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway.”

“Don’t give up just yet. I’m still working on it, Nat is helping. Something useful will turn up.”

Not like he had the option to give up, anyway. He swallowed a bitter sigh. Sam didn’t have any reason to even talk to him, let alone try to help his sorry ass. “I won’t. I am grateful for your help. And I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess,” he said truthfully. “Must be hard, fucking around with your past.”

Sam barked a startled laugh. “Yeah, no shit. 10/10 would not recommend,” he said.

“Relatable,” Bucky said. Common ground, who’d have thought.

“But I’ll do almost anything for that giant dumbass.” Sam’s smile came clear across the line.

“UGH, relatable.” Right. They had a continent’s worth of common, stubborn, dumbass ground. His appreciation for Sam instantly sky-rocketed when he realized Sam had been taking care of Steve while Bucky had been going on a murderous righteous rampage-journey to find himself and the fuckers responsible for his enslavement. “Thank you for having Steve’s six all this time, Sam.” His voice was just a tiny bit choked. He hoped Sam didn’t notice. “I owe you.”

Sam emitted another annoying, thoughtful hum, followed by a pause. “And who is that owes me, the Winter Soldier or James Barnes? Because I may collect, if need arises,” asked Sam, the fucker. Bucky was liking him more and more.

“Same difference. The Soldier, Barnes, Bucky, we’re all in your debt and you can count on any of us. Should need arise.”

“Noted.” Another pause. Sam apparently was the master of thoughtful pauses and it grated on Bucky’s nerves. He hated feeling seen, exposed, known. Even by a friendly gaze. “It’s getting late here. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, not really. Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem. ‘Til next time, Bucky.” And he disconnected, leaving Bucky gazing perplexed at his dark screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	8. Breathe Some Life Into My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scenic breakfast. A bottle of water and something unexpected.

Sitting on his bed, hair mussed, sheets pooling around his waist and highlighting his naked torso, Steve yawned when Bucky went back to the room, saying “Morning, Buck,” in a rumbly, sleepy voice that wasn’t sexy or cute, not even a little bit. Nope. “Did you sleep at all?”

_Some_ , was Bucky intended to say, but somehow it took the shape of, “Better than I’d slept in years.” _Oh Gorgons and snakes._ Again, the urge to facepalm, but he redirected his hand to card his own hair away from his face. Why did he keep tripping up like this, barfing feelings and honesty all over the place. The Soldier—now a constant, faint presence at the back of his mind—didn’t know what to do either, how to deal with the inescapable pull of Steve’s glow and his orbit.

Steve, however, beamed up at him, strangling Bucky’s heart with the warm thread under Bucky’s ribs. “I’m glad.”

Bucky didn’t possess the necessary genetic code to be mad about anything that made Steve Rogers happy, unless it implied danger to said Steve Rogers. Confessing to a good sleep didn’t pose any danger to said Steve Rogers’ well being, so he sighed, smiled and nodded. “Not for long, but a few hours. It was the best I’ve had since…” What the Hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. He shrugged, crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “I don’t remember ever sleeping so well.”

“Oh.” Steve’s grin was enormous, luminous, but it still had nothing on the light in his eyes, blue sparkling as bright as a nascent star.

“Yeah. Thanks. For, you know.” Bucky gestured vaguely to nothing in particular, feeling crimson heat climbing his cheeks.

“I know, Buck.” The smile softened. “Anytime.”

Steve saw too much, could read him as easily as a goddamned children’s book, but he didn’t feel exposed, not anymore. Weirdly, the heat in his cheeks wasn’t embarrassment. Something else, maybe anticipation, heated his blood and made it run fast.

Anticipation of what, he couldn’t have said.

“I slept very well, too,” Steve said, muscles flexing and elongating as he got up, back turned to Bucky, stretching his arms towards the ceiling, rolling his shoulders. Bucky’s mouth fell open, his breath short, eyes hungry over the valleys and mountains of Steve’s body, covered by his luscious gold skin. Suddenly Steve turned his head over his shoulder, smile teasing—he knew exactly what he was doing, how much he was affecting Bucky. He could probably tell the exact temperature of the heat pooling low in Bucky’s belly. “Let’s get going. We’re wasting daylight!”

There was a bounce in his step as he crossed the short distance to the bathroom.

“Daylight,” Bucky mumbled, resolutely not thinking about the bounce of Steve’s peach butt under his navy blue boxers. “Wasting.”

Steve smiled as he left the room, leaving Bucky speechless, completely discombobulated and dumbstruck in his wake.

Bucky couldn’t find in himself anything that minded it.

*

A little under an hour later they were on the road again.

At Steve’s behest, they had gotten sandwiches, a thermos full of hot coffee and two extra large cups of hot chocolate, to go. They would make a detour and go for breakfast at a scenic stop high up one of the surrounding mountains.

Truth was, Bucky existed solely at Steve’s behest, had become person by Steve’s command, so it seemed to him it was only fair, logical even, that he’d agree to almost any fucking thing Steve desired.

Specially when Steve smiled, happiness crackling at the corners of his eyes, whistling a tune under his breath, horribly off-key and colored in joy and aliveness.

Windows open to the morning chill, up the mountain they went, pavement giving way to packed dirt, the road winding around and around, serpentine and peacefully empty. Near the top, the road disappeared, fading into a hiking trail.

“Not far, I think,” Steve said as soon as they got out of the truck, looking ahead. They packed water bottles and their breakfast, hot chocolate secured in insulated travel cups, and set off, backpacks light.

Bucky’s heart was light, too. It may have floated away towards the blue, clean sky, if not for Steve’s thread anchoring it inside Bucky’s chest, into this body that had been misery and miserable, but was learning what joy felt like. What being alive felt like.

Funny how every day he found in himself a new tenderness towards all his parts and facets. This body, it was a good body, a strong body. It would protect Steve, always, until its dying breath and beyond. QED. But it had also brought Bucky here, to this moment. Had withstood so much, everything. It had never given up.

It was a good, strong body. Affection surged through him. And if he rubbed his own arms—even the metal arm, grafted to him in pain and violence, but now as much a part of him as his other limbs—in a sort of hug, nobody needed to know.

Even if he sensed that Steve would understand.

And then there was the Winter Soldier. Bucky didn’t have a split personality, he didn’t think. But this part of him, was him and also not. The Soldier had been molded from him by Hydra. Or Bucky, this Bucky, had emerged from the Soldier after Steve reminded the Soldier he was a person and not a thing. Who the fuck could know. They had always saved each other anyway, Bucky and the Soldier, kept one another safe as best as they could.

Agreement floated from the back of his consciousness, underlined with the same pride as before. _Yeah, pal, thanks_.

Another mystery was why the Soldier had revealed himself as a presence now, and not before. Bucky suspected it may be rooted in the same thing that allowed the handler to find him.

_“Correct assessment_.”

Steve had also seen the Soldier and had cared about him. Had saved him, _given up his fucking life_ to save him.

Growling in the back of his throat, he lifted his gaze from the path to Steve’s back, a familiar, comforting sight. The backpack looked small clinging to Steve’s shoulders, swaying with his steps, sighing against his too tight t-shirt. He’d already shucked his flannel shirt. Despite the cool air surrounding them, the back of his neck and his forearms glistened lightly with fine sweat. Bucky swallowed an ancient fear— _you gonna catch a chill, punk_. These days, the only thing Steve caught were bullets and alien rays. Which, yeah. This more recent fear soured in his gut, blinded him with rage for a second. He’d have tripped if his trained reflexes weren’t lightning fast and didn’t depend on his sight or even his attention.

“Buck?” Steve stopped and turned, preternaturally attuned to Bucky’s movements and even the sound of his breath, it seemed.

“Nothing,” Bucky grumbled, shoving his way past Steve.

Or trying, anyway. Steve stopped him with the lightest touch to his shoulder and Bucky sighed, relenting.

Bucky took a deep breath and looked into Steve’s eyes. “Just, promise you won’t risk your life like that again.” Steve raised an eyebrow. “For me, I mean.” Both of Steve’s eyebrows collided in a fierce, thunderous scowl. “I’m not worth it, Steve. And…” Bucky ducked his head, looking down at their feet, so close to one another. “You mean much more to me than myself, Steve. I don’t care what happens to me, I really don’t. But I can’t stand even the thought of anything happening to you.”

“Ditto,” Steve said, putting a light hand on Bucky’s neck, right over the shoulder juncture, thumb digging slightly under his jaw until Bucky looked up into his eyes. “It’s the same for me. So we both better stay safe and out of trouble, huh?” And he smiled, the punk _smiled_ , happy, as if it was a sensible thing to say, an easy thing to do. “C’mon, the spot is just around that bend.” He tipped his head to the curve in the trail a few meters up and away from where they stood. His hand smoothed down Bucky’s metal arm and caught his hand, interlacing their fingers and asking, “Okay?”

A shy smile illuminated his face and Bucky could only nod, wordless, overcome by Steve’s sweetness and fierceness. Steve tugged him close and they made the rest of the way like that, Bucky gripping the long, bony fingers between his own with gentleness and care, something like giddiness arcing up his arm in electrical currents.

For some unfathomable reason, there was a wooden bench at the end of the trail, overlooking the breathtaking landscape below and away. Weathered and scratched, it still looked strong and solid, made almost impavid stone by time and sun and rain. Bucky felt a sort of kinship with the bench, gave it a friendly pat in greeting before they put their things down on it.

Steve smiled as if he understood. Bucky couldn’t stop the shy answering curl of his own lips. He was losing sight of why he couldn’t… _just be_ around Steve. Take what Steve stubbornly offered, again and again. Why was he fighting so hard.

_Not allowed_.

Right. Monster, danger, not allowed. Sighing, he stepped to the very edge of the descent, step sure and light. Rolling slopes covered in pines and evergreens, painted in yellows and oranges, fiery brush strokes among the deep green, some red slashes here and there. Hints of mist scattered among the trunks, and the cerulean sky above, punctuated by low hanging white cotton clouds.

It was a fucking movie scene, alright. So beautiful it almost, almost looked fake. The sharp, cold air was the pinch of reality that made him feel as if he’d stepped into a fairy tale.

“How did you find this place?” A little bit of reverence slipped into his tone.

“Hiking app,” Steve murmured, right by his side, voice also caught in the beauty before them. “I wanted…” Bucky saw a flash of pink cover his cheeks before Steve ducked his head, shoving his hands in his pockets and curling his shoulders inward. “I wanted— _want_ to show you beautiful things. You deserve all the best stuff, Buck.”

Oh, Steve. Sweet Steve. Bucky bit his lips to keep a sob inside. He most certainly didn’t deserve any fucking thing, least of all this sweet, sweet man and his devotion. Still, the reality of it sliced him open, spilling his feelings all around their feet, suddenly drowning him in affection and tenderness. “I.” Swallowing roughly, tensing his jaw, he nodded, looked at Steve, willing him to look back, to understand, to _know_.

And Steve did. “Yeah.” The supernova smile made an appearance, one corner higher than the other, his eyes soft and glittering in the morning sun. “It’s okay, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t fall to his knees to adore Steve like a pagan of the old days, but it was a near thing. Instead, he turned his blurry gaze towards the mountains in the distance, praying to the undead spirits to keep the tears from falling.

Steve, may the Gods bless him forever, allowed him a moment, pretended not to notice his internal commotion. Quiet, solid, weathered, mountain and forest, he stood by Bucky’s side for all the moments he needed to get his shit together and not fall apart at his feet.

Finally, Bucky felt a little less like a pile of dried leaves, a little less brittle, breakable. Still not knowing _how_ , he reached for the thread around his heart and gave it a pull, soul settling back into his bones when he felt the anchor of his existence at the other end.

“Learned that, did you,” Steve said, grinning.

Bucky gave him a sideway glance, eyebrow up, lips forming an old smile, one he’d forgotten how to make. “I’m sure I don’t know what the Hell you are talking about.”

And oh Gods, oh wonders of creation, Steve threw his head back and laughed, a magical sound that scattered over the valley below and floated to the sky above, skittered along Bucky’s soul and bones and filled all of it with joy. He laughed with his whole being, eyes closed, hand in his chest, and Bucky was sure he’d never need anything else.

Shaking his head, beaming like the fucking ray of sun he was, Steve said, “Let’s have some breakfast. I’m hungry.”

_Anything for you, Steve_.

As they sat there in silence, eating and warming their bellies with hot chocolate, they could hear the birds chirping, conversing, the breeze slipping gently among the trees. Now and then their fingers brushed, skin, metal, it didn’t matter. Togetherness and quiet threaded around them, soft.

For the first time he could remember, Bucky felt peaceful. As if he was exactly where he was supposed to.

*

It had been a good day. No terrors, no tendrils, no violation of his mind and soul. He and Steve had—had fun, he could admit it. Maybe.

After breakfast, they’d a very Serious Music Discussion in the car when Steve turned the music player on and selected an album. Steve defending his favorite rock band from the 80’s, and Bucky pretending not to know Queen and, even worse—hating it. It took Steve all of two minutes of arguing until he realized Bucky was fucking with him. His murder glare could have rivaled the Winter Soldier’s.

Steve then proceeded to ignore Bucky by singing Bohemian Rhapsody from the top of his lungs. He was so really bad at it. Bucky hated it. He really did.

He didn’t end up singing-screaming a duet-fight with Steve, nope.

And he didn’t have fun at all. Like, none.

When they stopped for the night at a new small, nondescript hotel, he was tired, but it was the good tiredness of a day spent using his body to move and being alive. Even the creakiness caused by sitting on the truck for hours felt like a nice reminder of all the great moments they’d shared on the road.

It had been a good day, so of course Steve decided to be a Pain In The Ass.

They had separate beds again. A sensible choice. There was no reason to share a bed. There wasn’t. None.

“C’mon, Buck.”

Shame that just like Steve’s righteous bullshit shtick didn’t work on him, his stone cold Winter Soldier murder glare didn’t work on Steve. Bucky sighed and took a big gulp of his ice water while Steve looked expectantly at him. “No.”

“You’ve ended up sleeping in my bed every night! You should just go ahead and save us both the time and come sleep there now. You’ll get more rest that way.”

Bucky just stared at him. Took another sip of his water, mostly to keep himself from accepting Steve’s offer.

“I just don’t want you to have another nightmare,” Steve murmured, turning his puppy eyes on Bucky, and fuck, that one _did_ work on him, it always had. “Are you more afraid of me than of your night terrors?”

Oh no, he didn’t. He did not. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Bucky growled, strangling his water bottle.

“Prove it.”

“What are we, children?” He stepped closer to Steve, who stood his ground, looking absolutely edible in just his boxers, freshly showered, skin damp and mussed hair looking like burnished gold. “You can’t just ‘chicken’ me into doing what you want.” He rolled his eyes. Mostly to keep them away from Steve’s deliciousness, now too close for comfort.

Bucky hadn’t thought this through.

“You _are_ afraid.” His tone was trying to fake surprise, but Bucky knew Steve. The core of his being knew Steve, even if Bucky didn’t remember. The bones knew Steve was _being a little shit_. “It’s okay, Buck. I won’t think less of you.” Steve’s eyes sparkled, giving the ruse away, even as he kept his expression deadpan.

_Oh my freaking Gods_. “Are you sure that’s how you want to play this?” Bucky lifted his arm, threatening to dump ice cold water on Steve’s giant head. “I can be childish with the worst of them,” he growled.

Steve’s eyes widened and he laughed, disbelieving. “You wouldn’t.”

Ha. Wordlessly, he started to trickle the water over Steve’s head. Slowly. Steve’s eyes got even wider and his mouth fell open. With an indignant noise, he grabbed Bucky’s wrist. Unfortunately for him, it was the metal arm, which kept the bottle steadily dripping water over him. Bucky swallowed a laugh as they wrestled. The water was already dripping down Steve’s face, his eyelashes catching small droplets.

He had lashes for days, gorgeous lashes, how was it possible to have beautiful eyelashes. Bucky had never thought about it, but here he was, mesmerized by Steve’s eyes and— _fuck._ Steve took advantage of his distraction and was getting the upper hand. He’d managed to turn Bucky’s hand a little, aiming the bottle towards Bucky’s head.

Bucky could easily turn this into a real fight, use the metal arm and his training to win. He wouldn’t, though. Wouldn’t risk hurting Steve, not even slightly, not for any reason.

However, he would not let him win, either. Besides his professional pride, all parts of his being blared _Bucky Barnes wouldn’t let Steve Rogers get away with being a little shit_.

_Strategy needed_. Distract Steve. They were so close, Steve’s eyes laughing under his freaking gorgeous eyelashes, cheeks flushed and lips parted. Full, smiling, tempting lips. So close.

Bucky surged up and...kissed Steve.

_He kissed Steve._

After a second of motionless surprise and eyes sparkling like a blue lake under the sun, Steve kissed him back. The universe tilted over its axis in a perfect, breathless curve of longing and coming home. Bucky closed his eyes with a sigh. Steve’s mouth soft, warm, his hand coming up to cradle Bucky’s neck tenderly, fingertips sliding shivery over his skin.

Ice cold water dripped into his temple. Bucky...He didn’t whine, he growled, okay, he growled a protest. He was kissing Steve and he didn’t want to stop. He then realized his arm was still in the air like a dumbass, water slowly trickling from the bottle into their heads.

Everything in him screamed at him to drop the bottle and put his arms around Steve, to hold him tight, tight, never let him go.

_Not allowed. Not allowed. Not. Allowed_.

Bucky jumped back. What the fuck had he done. Steve just stared at him, dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cringed. By the Minotaur’s horns, this was a line he shouldn’t have crossed. His dick had perked up and twitched in his boxers. He prayed fervently to all infernal deities Steve hadn’t noticed.

“It’s okay.” Steve seemed to recover fast, eyes back to laughing and Bucky didn’t know why but he sorta wanted to punch him. A little. In the nicest way possible.

And also maybe kiss him again.

“Go get dry,” Bucky grumbled, looking down to his feet as he put the almost empty bottle on a side table. _Please get away from me before I kiss you again._

The crooked tilt of Steve’s mouth and the curve of his brows as he nodded and walked to the bathroom meant something, Bucky was sure. He didn’t know what. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what. At least Steve didn’t seem mad, or hurt. Thanks the Gods and assorted mythological creatures for that. He’d have to…he didn’t know what he’d do if he’d hurt Steve with his recklessness.

Sighing, Bucky ran his hands down his temples, to his cheekbones and his jaw, trying to scrape his dumbassery off. This could have blown up in his face, ruined everything. That, more than _not allowed_ , was why he needed to keep his distance. He didn’t know how to be close, how to allow contact, how to not be a threat. No matter how much he wanted— _Gods, he wanted_ —he needed to stay away.

Steve came back and threw a towel over Bucky’s head. Full on smiling, now. “You’re wet too.”

_What?!_ Steve had noticed after all. Bucky was going to expire in a mortification-fueled pyre. It must have been evident in his face, because Steve’s eyes danced. “Your hair. It’s wet.”

Little shit. Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Punk.”

“Jerk.” Steve was _beaming_.

So annoying. Not at all endearing. In no way warming the empty spaces under Bucky’s bones.

*

Two a.m.

Two o’bullshit in the morning. Bucky couldn’t sleep.

After such a great day, after…

After the kiss. He’d kissed Steve. He now knew what it felt like to press his lips to Steve’s, how soft and warm and welcoming his mouth was.

How could he live now with that knowledge, not being allowed to do it again and again. He didn’t know.

Two a.m. and Bucky couldn’t sleep. He’d thought, hoped, that after a great day and the miracle that was knowing what kissing Steve felt like, he’d be able to sleep.

He even sorta did for a few minutes…until he’d crashed into a nightmare. A mix of bad, painful memories and darkness and tendrils, he didn’t know anymore what was courtesy from the handler and what was just his PTSD getting friendly.

Yes, he’d learned a few things on the internet, thank you very much. Acquiring intel was one of the most important steps of any mission. Bucky wasn’t the best mythological assassin for nothing. He’d concluded, after much, _much_ research, he suffered from PTSD. Which, great, fantastic, he had a name for part of the fuckery going on inside the rusted cheese grater he used as an excuse for a brain. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Except, his post-brainwashing brain wasn’t the most pressing matter right now. He wished there was as much information about dullahans—real ones—as there was about mental health.

Not that he’d had much success with the mental health stuff either. But at least he _knew_ things, even if it didn’t help him for shit. It truly didn’t keep the nightmares at bay, knowing that maybe they were caused by trauma and bad memories.

In the nightmare, he’d been gasping for air as the tendrils grew out from his own chest, breaking his bones open, sliding up to twine around his throat. No matter how much he’d fought, he couldn’t get rid of them. The nauseating feel of those oily things over his skin turned his stomach over, until they started tightening, closing his windpipe, tight, tight, and all he knew was pain in his chest, lungs on fire.

He trashed, clawed at them, suspended in a black void that was nothing, no light, no breath. The voice whispered _Come back, come back,_ sweet and cloying and revolting inside his thoughts.

No air, no light. He’d die.

He’d never see Steve’s light again.

_Steve_.

No. He couldn’t die, couldn’t abandon Steve.

He woke up with a gasp, hands going instinctively to his throat, relief coursing thunderous through him when he only found skin. Clammy skin covering a violent pulse, but it was just him.

Thankfully, he hadn’t awakened Steve with his screams.

Sitting in his bed, Bucky stared at Steve. He was asleep, face down, sheets hugging his waist greedily, revealing the glorious geography of his naked back and the powerful curve of a thigh and a bent knee. Hunger and longing tumbled through Bucky as he drank the sight of Steve. Mouth slightly parted, those impossible eyelashes fanned over his rosy cheeks, a rebellious lock falling over his forehead, he looked peaceful, soft. Inviting.

_Not allowed_.

He shuddered with vestigial terror from the nightmare. He shouldn’t be so selfish to do that to Steve. Risk tainting his sunshine with his own darkness.

Not again, at least. He couldn’t forget himself again.

Bucky scrunched his eyes closed, feeling Steve’s pull in his bones, the very marrow of his soul wanting to get closer, trace Steve’s back with his fingertips, kiss his shoulder blade tenderly. Longing for the peace he’d found in Steve’s embrace.

Sweating and trembling, he tried to fight it, he did. Knowing from the start it was a losing battle, he argued with himself. If he slept a bit, he’d be better able to protect Steve. That was perfectly rational and logical. He didn’t have ulterior motives whatsoever. And it wasn’t his fault that his nightmares seemed to be afraid of Steve’s slight snores. Or that he could only sleep well when he was at a get-elbowed-in-the-ribs distance.

Exhausted after almost an hour of internal battle, he finally crawled silently into Steve’s bed. With a sigh, he lay down and made himself into a small curl, back turned away from Steve, not touching him. He didn’t want to disturb his sleep.

A quiet moment passed while Bucky closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, matching it to Steve’s, to the soft rhythm of the air faintly brushing his own hair, feeling his muscles unwinding bit by bit. He’d have slept like that, near, safe, but a second later Steve snaked his arm around Bucky’s waist and dragged him closer, until his back was flush with Steve’s chest and Steve’s hand rested over Bucky’s heart.

Nuzzling the back of Bucky’s neck, he murmured “Sleep, Buck,” and started snoring softly again.

_Yes_. Burrowing into Steve’s warmth, Bucky exhaled, curled his fingers around Steve’s hand. Content, warm, safe, he fell asleep and dreamed of kissing Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	9. We Never Knew Perfection Like It Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sad morning. Grocery shopping, candy and soft clothes. 
> 
> After their long journey, Steve and Bucky finally arrive at the cabin in the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [norsellie’s](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840688/chapters/68160757) gorgeous art for the cabin!

As the wee hours of the morning gave way to sunrise, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, diffuse, inviting Bucky back into the world, slow and mellow. Just awakened, all of him still fuzzy and sweet, he curled into Steve, head on his shoulder. Feeling, wondrously, as if he belonged there.

Steve’s arm rounded his back, bringing his giant hand to rest over Bucky’s bicep. Bucky knew, distantly, this was right. He also knew…no. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think anything that would rip him away from this perfect, quiet bubble of happiness. He touched the silky curve of Steve’s waist, sketched in the penumbra. Soft, warm skin, magic under his fingertips.

And a memory underneath it, of a supple, slightly round belly, just as soft and warm and beloved.

Bucky frowned, unraveling threads of memories. “You were smaller.”

“Yes.” Almost a laugh.

“And I touched you. I was allowed to touch.” His frown deepened. That couldn’t be true. He’d never been worthy of Steve, not even before the Nothing.

A pause. “Yes.” Almost a sob, almost, but not quite hitting the sadness note. “More than allowed, Buck. Welcomed. Wanted.”

 _Wanted_. Sharp pain sliced his chest open, awakening him fully. He wasn’t worthy, didn’t deserve it. Couldn’t allow it, _not allowed, not allowed_.

Fuck.

Sitting up abruptly, he turned away from Steve and put his feet on the ground. “I need to get up.”

Steve didn’t fight. He sighed, sad, defeated. “Okay. Let’s get up and get this show on the road.”

Letting his head hang low, Bucky didn’t have the courage to look up and watch Steve as he silently made way to his bag to retrieve his clothes. Nevertheless, he could see out the corner of his eyes the way his shoulders hunched in, the slight drag to his steps when he went to the bathroom and closed the door with a soft click.

Bucky had screwed up, he was certain. He was not entirely sure how. Or what.

Or even why.

*

Unlike all the previous morning, this time the drive was silent. Silently, Steve had packed his things, trying to keep his sadness inside. He didn’t want to burden Bucky with his feelings, his longing, his little disappointments.

He’d never force or demand anything. Being near Bucky, being allowed…all he’d been allowed, touch, nearness, company, stories, questions. Sometimes, for a few short, precious moments, he’d even felt as if he’d been held inside Bucky’s heart, protected and safe under his ribs.

It was enough, it would always be enough.

Still, it was sometimes hard the way Bucky oscillated, shivery, between coming closer and dragging himself back away from Steve. It was like there was a barrier keeping him from staying for good, something that pulled him from Steve’s arms, again and again.

And like the ocean, like the force of life that he was, Bucky stubbornly crashed back into Steve, seeking him, asking for harbor, each time seemingly disbelieving and awed that Steve made space for him, waited for him, wanted him.

As if he weren’t the most wondrous thing in the whole Universe.

 _I’ll always make space for you, Buck_. How he wished he could say it out loud. But it wasn’t the time yet. Keeping a sigh behind his teeth, he risked a sideways glance to the passenger side _._ Bucky watched the streets and houses and shops go by, head resting against the window, a little frown marring his forehead. He looked thoughtful and maybe a little sad. Steve didn’t know what to say to make it better. Or even to not make it worse.

Waking up with Bucky sleepy and sweet in his arms…his whole being had sparked with happiness. The way Bucky had touched him, remembered. For a moment, Steve had thought Bucky would stay close, would want to stay in his arms.

He’d been wrong, of course he’d been wrong. Bucky wasn’t ready, maybe he would never be. And that was okay, it would always be enough, even if sometimes it hurt like hell, like his chest had been hollowed out and he was bleeding out in the cold. He swallowed roughly, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill, and focused on the road.

A few blocks later he spotted a little cafe and parked in front of it, smoothly, as if he’d been planning to stop there all along.

“Back in a minute,” Steve muttered and got out of the truck without waiting for any acknowledgment.

He didn’t look back, either.

While he waited for his order—two sandwiches and coffee to fill the thermos—he regained his composure. As much as he could, anyway.

No hot chocolate, no pastries. Too much sadness and heaviness in this chest this morning for hot chocolate and pastries. Bucky probably wouldn’t even care.

The thought added another notch of sadness to his ribs.

As it often was the case, about many things, Steve was wrong. As soon as he opened the truck’s door and gave Bucky the bag of sandwiches and the thermos, Bucky tossed him an inquiring look, which quickly morphed into disbelief and then betrayal when he realized Steve wasn’t carrying anything else.

A slow, irresistible smile spread over Steve’s face, fondness warming his heart and soothing the sore spots in his chest.

“They didn’t have hot chocolate,” he lied. “I thought you could look for a place—”

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky grumbled, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Not that I care.”

“Of course not, Buck,” Steve said, starting the truck and grinning like a fool.

It would be okay. It was hard, and it hurt like hell sometimes, but they’d always find the way to each other.

*

The rest of the day went much better after that. Maybe they didn’t chat and laugh as much as Steve was getting used to, but it was more of a companionable silence, the heaviness of sadness banished by the best butter pastries Steve had ever tasted outside of Denmark—called “palmeritas” by the Spanish, due to their peculiar shape—and a very, very good hot chocolate that Bucky had pronounced “sheer perfection” before promptly turning red and ducking his head, ineffectively trying to hide his smile behind the cup.

They wouldn’t enter Madrid proper, just go around its border, toward the northern mountains. Before they took the road that led directly to Navacerrada, however, Steve stopped at a big grocery store. He had a lot of stuff already stocked in the cabin, and quite a bit left in the back of the truck, but he wanted to buy fresh food and some indulgences that Bucky would enjoy.

“El Corte Inglés,” Bucky said slowly once they arrived, as if the words tasted disgusting in his mouth. “What the hell is that?”

“Stop trying to be grumpy,” Steve said, stifling a laugh. “It’s not working.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes to _I-will-murder-you_ slits and didn’t reply.

“They sell not only groceries, but all sorts of things, from furniture to electronics and everything in between,” Steve explained. That was precisely why he’d chosen this store. “It’s an old department store from the 40s.”

Bucky grumbled under and over his breath, complaining that they didn’t need anything and why was Steve dragging him to run errands, but as they climbed escalator after escalator, walking the labyrinth of paths between them, his eyes took everything in greedily, full of the wonder and curiosity Steve remembered from when they were young. His heart cracked with sorrow and joy watching him observe everything around them, the colorful and tasteful displays, the bustle of people laughing and discussing and filling their carts and bags.

Steve didn’t know if Bucky remembered their own wide-eyed visits to department stores, admiring everything they couldn’t afford, sometimes for the fun of it, oftentimes to escape the outside cold for a bit. But it was okay. He remembered enough for both of them, and Bucky seemed to be enjoying the visit despite himself. He vowed he’d bring Bucky back to see the Christmas decorations in December. Bucky was going to love it, and Steve was going to love watching him being joyful and filled with wonder.

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know,” Steve said quietly when Bucky stopped in front of a candy display.

Bucky was smiling almost shyly at the cheerful tubes, arranged in a rainbow pattern, fingers twitching. He turned abruptly to Steve, his face unsuccessfully trying to scowl up at him for a minute. Steve waited him out.

“Maybe.” Lips twisting to the side, his expression wistful, he turned back to the candy. “Maybe we could take some?”

The hopefulness of his tone stabbed Steve right in the gut. He had to swallow a small boulder before he could speak. “Of course, Buck. Let’s buy some candy.”

Encouraging Bucky to buy all the candy he wanted was one of the happiest, most transcendental experiences of Steve’s long, long life. His skin was bursting at the seams with light and giddiness as he grabbed a handful of small plastic bags and accompanied Bucky from one tube to another, holding the bags under the opening as Bucky decided how much he wanted of each kind. Bucky laughed and smiled and his eyes glowed clear and crystalline.

It was the most pure, undiluted joy either of them had experienced since they were small enough to dream about buying all the candy they wanted. The memory of being too poor to afford any except for a very few times was bittersweet, and he should feel guilty for spending a small fortune in sugar and food coloring. Yet, Steve couldn’t help but be so fucking happy they’d gotten here. They’d survived, and he could afford to buy Bucky a candy store chain if he wanted, and Bucky Fucking Deserved All The Candy And Happiness He Desired.

Yes, capital letters and all.

They left the store with two fancy paper bags filled to the brim with about five kilograms of candy, chocolate and assorted sweets, and the biggest smile Steve had seen in Bucky’s face since before the war.

“We may have gone _slightly_ overboard,” Bucky said and chuckled, cheeks reddening adorably.

“Nah.” Steve would have paid millions of dollars for that smile alone. “Just right.”

Bucky shook his head, smile now directed at Steve, half way between shy and fond. Smiling back, he dragged Bucky to the clothes section.

“Please don’t argue with me over this, okay?” Steve took a deep breath. “I want to buy you some soft clothes.”

“What?” The smile wasn’t entirely gone, but it retreated to the corner of his eyes, leaving his lips in a flat line of suspicion. “Why?”

At this point, after all they’d been through during the last few days—hell, their entire lives—Steve figured he had no reason at all to be anything but honest with Bucky.

“I’ve noticed you don’t have any really comfortable clothes. Everything is very practical, always armor to some degree.” Blowing out a breath, Steve rubbed the back of his neck, forcing his gaze to stay with Bucky’s. “And that’s okay. I get why. I’m not judging. I just think you deserve comfortable stuff to sleep, at the very least.”

Straightening up and squaring his shoulders, Bucky said, “I don’t—” He closed his mouth, pressing his lips between his teeth. Opened it again, sucked a breath, closed it. As he exhaled, his shoulders went down. Not in defeat, however. It looked like he relaxed, lay his weapons down, so to speak. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve couldn’t help, he grinned, brows climbing up his forehead in delighted surprise.

“Yes, okay, you ox.” He shook his head, smiling again, eyes soft. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“Okay!” He may be an ox, but he was a very happy ox. Bucky was smiling, fondness and shyness spilling all over them. Nothing else held any importance.

After a very fun hour of bickering and trying clothes and generally making themselves a nuisance to the very patient, extremely polite salesman that helped them and said they were cute together—Steve’s blush took a while to disappear after that one, while Bucky just thanked the man and winked at Steve, making his blush spread further—they left the store with five bags of clothes, two bags of candy and five boxes of groceries, plus fresh bread, a Spanish tortilla for dinner and another box of sugar-glazed palmeritas for dessert.

It would forever be one of Steve’s favorite days of all his life.

*

Finally, finally, they took a turn on the almost inexistent gravel road, and Steve’s cabin appeared at the end of the winding path.

  
**art** \- Steve’s cabin by [norsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840688/chapters/68160757)

Bucky loved it at first sight. It looked sturdy and strong like Steve, a quiet refuge after a long journey. Rustic wood, white, weathered windows, sloping roof. Dark, heavy oak for the door, and a wraparound porch from where you could probably see all the magnificence of the mountains, the deep shadowed valleys covered in pines, the clouds hugging the tallest peaks.

A few minutes later Steve parked the pickup. Silence enveloped them, a river of calm invading the truck as they opened the door. Birds chirped here and there, punctuated by a chorus of crickets and the slight rustle of leaves. The sun slowly set over the mountains, stirring up a humid chill from the ground, a haze of something that wanted to be fog but hadn’t achieved it yet.

Stepping out of the truck, his boots crunching agreeably over the gravel, Bucky approached the precipice to the side of the road and took a deep, deep breath. Filling himself with the pure joy of this fresh world, so beautiful and serene, untouched by ugliness or fear.

A heartbeat later, Steve stood by his side, arms crossed over his chest, an honorable, strong king of legend surveying his domain. “I never get tired of this,” Steve murmured, reverent.

Bucky turned to him, to watch Steve look at the magnificence surrounding them, and his breath stuttered a bit, unsure it was worthy of sharing Steve’s space. A delightful pink floated high on Steve’s cheeks, his eyes as blue and bright and vast as the sky. And when he looked back to Bucky, his smile was so incandescent that for a moment Bucky could have believed the sun had reversed course and walked over the horizon again.

Captivated as he’d always been by Steve, inexorably spellbound, Bucky said in the same tone, “Me either.”

Bucky couldn’t fathom what was on his own face when he said it, but it must be the truth, because Steve’s grin went supernova.

The thing under his ribs warmed around his heart, filled his chest with threads of golden light. Steve bumped him sideways, playfully, and didn’t say anything. Just stood right by his side, patient and content as always. Bucky didn’t want to fight his own joy anymore. He encircled Steve’s shoulders gently, pulling him closer. Steve weaved an arm behind his back, leaning his head sweetly on the curve of Bucky’s neck, and for a while they forgot about everything else. For a while nothing hurt, nothing was wrong, as they breathed in sync, watching the sun go to sleep behind the mountains.

Darkness crawled from the peaks through the valleys below and fast approached their spot, as the temperature dropped like boulders. Bucky shivered.

“I never got much affinity for the cold, you know.” Steve straightened and tilted his head to the truck. “Let’s get our stuff and head inside. Cold weather is only nice when I’m warm.”

Bucky knew it was true. It was also kindness. So much of Steve’s strength was rooted in kindness, _was_ kindness. How could Steve still be this golden, kind, honorable man after the world had eaten him, demanded his blood and his body and his loyalty, only to spit him out and banish him once he hadn’t walked the tight line drawn for him…How could he still be a walking shard of sunlight?

“Alright,” Bucky murmured.

Steve unlocked the oak door and turned the lights on. Two supersoldiers made short order of unloading everything to the cabin’s entrance, now and then bumping each other on purpose, smiling, landing an affectionate hand over each other’s backs more often.

Once the truck was locked and the cabin’s door closed behind them, Bucky took a good look at the space while Steve turned the heat on. Warm air flooded the cabin, and Bucky’s muscles melted a little.

“We have a working fireplace, but it takes it too long to warm the entire cabin. So I had an HVAC installed.” Steve pointed to the enormous wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall. “That glass can withstand even the Hulk. The windows are all thermally insulated, and we have shutters and curtains.”

 _Oh bless Medusa’s snakes_. The windows wouldn’t keep his own shadows at bay, wouldn’t stop the tendrils of darkness from reaching him, trying to drag him back to Hell…but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about low-level threats. Even as Bucky imagined the view of the mountains must be spectacular during the day, his skin had crawled at the thought of being so exposed at night. Shutters and curtains felt so much safer, he almost shuddered with relief.

Steve’s pleased, proud smile said he knew this, too.

“You think of everything, don’t you.” Bucky narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, legs acquiring a defensible stance in a useless move, since he had no defense against Steve’s thoughtfulness. “It’s really annoying.”

“Not everything.” The smile turned sweet, almost shy. Turning his eyes to the windows, even though they couldn’t see anything but the faceless dark outside, Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I just…I know you. I think about you. A lot.”

 _Oh Steve_. Regret twisted Bucky’s lips, and he swallowed hard. “I wish…”

What? Steve was always on his thoughts, ever since the bridge. Not a day, not many hours had gone since that day, when Steve hadn’t been on his mind, keeping him company, being his North Star, his guiding light back from the Abyss where he’d been lost for so long.

But he didn’t _know_ Steve, not really. He had fragments of memories, and Steve’s honesty and kindness and caring. Things that ought to belong to someone else, someone worthy. Someone whole and made of light like Steve, not a walking nightmare made of darkness. The same darkness that was now coming back to reclaim him.

What he wished, maybe, was for the past to be different. Few things were more useless than that. Taking a measured, slow breath, he turned resolutely to the windows. “Nevermind.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked a few more steps into a very well thought out living space. Spacious, but not massive, it felt inviting and cozy. Opposite the door, the tall stone fireplace divided the panoramic windows in half.

Plush, colorful rugs broke the lines of the red tinted wooden floors, flanking an enormous sectional sofa facing the fireplace, accompanied by a chunky, heavy red wood coffee table. A warm, bulky brown leather chair sat to the side, between the sectional and the windows. A small table, a vintage-looking brass lamp and a combo of a cream and light brown cushion and blanket in the same colors made it the perfect reading spot.

Bucky’s heart ached with half-shattered memories of reading stories to Steve, trying to distract him when he was sick, delirious with fever. Or simply to share things the other Bucky, the true Bucky, thought Steve would find interesting or amusing.

“The books on the shelves, you can take anything you want.” Steve had his back turned, but he nodded to the pair of bookcases behind Bucky, right beside the armchair. Crouching in front of the fireplace, he’d busied himself lighting the fire, the first small flames crackling over the kindling, licking into the dry logs arranged just so. And yet, he knew what Bucky was thinking anyway. “I tried to get a selection of some of your old favorites—the ones I remembered, I don’t really know the ones you read when I was feverish. Plus some new stuff I thought maybe you’d like.”

Lifting a hand to his face to cover his mouth and keep a sob in, Bucky clawed his nails into his cheek. Wishing he could draw blood, knowing Steve would be upset if he did.

Overcome with a furious, almost irrepressible desire to _run_ —he didn’t deserve any of this, he didn’t deserve Steve, he shouldn’t even be allowed on his presence, this was sacrilege, to be taking everything Steve offered, allowing himself to touch and look and _want—he didn’t, he couldn’t, he needed to go away before he hurt Steve, no, anything but that, he’d do anything but hurt the man on the bridge, the bright soul—_

 _“_ Bucky! _”_ Steve’s voice, worried, pleading, brought him back to the present, but everything was still wrong.

Everything still hurt.

 _Steve. No, Steve, I’m broken, I can’t let you close. I desperately want to, but I can’t._ Desperately, wordlessly, he shook his head, closed his eyes.

Strong arms around him. Warm and alive, _please don’t do this, I’m not strong enough to deny you._

Lips on his temple. “Please, come back to me. You’re safe. I’m here.” Fingers carding his hair gently. Cradling his head, whispering a litany of words, weaving sunlight around Bucky as the threads of light held his heart. “You promised. Please come back.”

“Steve.” Strangled, prayer and curse and the most beautiful word ever spoken. “I’m here.” Closing his eyes, tumbling into Steve’s arm, he cursed them both. “I’ll always be here. I’ll always come back.”

And no matter how much he knew he shouldn’t, he would. He would. He’d never be able to atone, to deserve.

But he wouldn’t break a promise to Steve, either. Not for any reason. Not for as long as he drew breath and his bones didn’t turn to dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 kilograms == About 11 pounds.
> 
> A [Spanish tortilla](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_omelette) is sort of a potatoes and eggs omelet or fritatta. It often includes onions. It’s one of the signature dishes in the Spanish cuisine, eaten every day both hot or at room temperature, over thick slices of bread. 
> 
> [Palmeritas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palmier) are an originally French pastry shaped like a palm leaf or a butterfly. They’re very popular in Spain.


	10. What a Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Steve-bed. A sunscreen-fueled ploy and another shower.
> 
> A hike and a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m adding the self-acceptance tag to this.
> 
> Thanks and much love to [Meta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/need_more_meta/pseuds/need_more_meta) for making me realize how Bucky’s journey towards self-acceptance and healing is a big, central part of this story. 💛💛💛💛💛💛

After Bucky had gotten a hold on himself, and Steve finished lighting the fire up, they sat at the sofa and scarfed down a sizable amount of Spanish tortilla over fresh, crusty bread, and had palmeritas and ice cream for dessert.

They’d left the curtains open to spend their quiet, companionable dinner gazing silently at the deep cobalt sky and the myriad stars that the absence of light allowed to shine through, pinpoints of brightness prickling the darkness. Little points of light that Bucky almost felt like hope—maybe some small light could get through his own darkness, too.

But probably not.

And even if it did, what would that solve? What purpose would it serve? What meager light could live inside him was nothing compared to Steve’s supernova, would never measure up. He sighed a deep, weary, tired sigh, and leaned back on the sofa. His belly full, safe in Steve’s house, he was pleasantly warm and comfortable—wearing the soft pants Steve had made him buy, plus one of Steve’s shirts.

There absolutely _was_ a logical reason why he’d exchanged one of his new shirts for one of Steve’s old ones. He just wished he knew what it was.

Steve didn’t offer any comment, the delinquent, but the way he lifted a brow and his lips curled up when he saw Bucky may be indication that Steve knew the reason, and it pleased him greatly.

Bucky would eat the shirt before he asked, though.

Better to sit there quietly, enjoying the comfort he didn’t deserve, the warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been missing the last two years, and watch Steve puttering in the kitchen area adjacent to the living room. Which he’d been missing for the last seventy years, without knowing it.

Once he finished with the remnants of their dinner, Steve stood behind the kitchen bar, ran a restless hand through his hair, caught the back of his neck and squeezed, as if trying to make words come out from his ears.

“I’m going to bed,” Steve finally said.

Studiously keeping his gaze on the fire, Bucky didn’t move. “Okay.”

“You—”

Nope, not going there. _Not allowed_. “Goodnight, Steve.”

A sigh. Bowed head. “Good night, Buck.” And he was gone.

Bucky waited two minutes, stood up, closed the curtains—heavy, sturdy, they’d block the light well come sunrise—and went to lay down in the guest niche.

The cabin was very, very nice. Besides the living and kitchen areas, there was a sort of enclosure made up as a guest bedroom. Open to the living room, flanked by two thick wooden columns, separated only by a white cotton curtain for privacy. A mattress on the floor served as the bed, so very plush and thick, covered in soft, inviting covers, Bucky would have looked at it with longing, had Steve been in it.

 _Damn it_. Damn him back to the Hell from whence he came.

Skin prickling with anger, he plopped down on the bed, over the white cotton sheets and the beige blanket striped in different colors, and banged his head back on the fluffy pillows. Refusing to enjoy it. Trying to stop thinking about sharing it with Steve, about curling up in his arms again.

Turning his face to the ceiling, he closed his eyes. He would _not_ go there. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

 _Not allowed_.

It was enough to be near. To be in Steve’s house. Bucky couldn’t let Steve get closer, couldn’t risk…Bucky didn’t even know exactly what, anymore.

But he did know he didn’t deserve. Anything. Anything at all. Not allowed to get close.

And yet, Steve had seemed so hopeful, and then so sad.

 _Fuck_.

No. He wouldn’t go back to Steve’s bed. He would not sleep, he would eat his nightmares. He would.

Even from his nook across the cabin, he could hear Steve turning and tossing and sighing. The asshole. Why did he have to care, to want Bucky near him. Why did he allow Bucky to want, to care, to be near him.

Why didn’t he hate Bucky, why wasn’t he afraid of him. Why.

Steve’s words reached him. “I miss you, you know.” Spoken softly. Sadly. “I thought…” Pause. Silence that stretched centuries. “Doesn’t matter. Good night, Buck.” His voice was watery.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Before his brain could say otherwise, Bucky was moving.

Trained-assassin-silent, he went to Steve’s bedroom and stopped at the door’s threshold. Steve’s back was turned to him. Steve didn’t move, but Bucky knew he was awake, aware of Bucky’s presence. He’d heard Steve’s heart skip a beat, the barely perceptible hitch on his breathing.

Not allowed, not allowed, _not allowed_.

Not allowed to be here, to get closer, to taint Steve further. Trembling, he turned away, and a soft sound reached him, a sob maybe. Bucky stopped.

“Don’t go.” Small, unsure, sad.

Bucky was discovering that nothing in his life had ever been as hard or impossible as saying _no_ to Steve. Not even seventy years of training and torture had given him the strength for that. The curl in his gut said this wasn’t new; it was something he shared with the old Bucky. Neither of them could deny Steve anything, not ever.

Defeated, giddy, _wanting_ , he climbed into the bed. Stretched his tired body to cradle Steve, his metal arm arm curled around Steve’s waist, clasping his hand over Steve’s chest, resting his forehead against his nape, like they’d done the reverse the last few nights. Blurry memories told him this was right, _this_ was how it was supposed to be.

“We did this, Before,” he murmured, lips sliding over Steve’s impossibly soft hair, and Steve shuddered. “You’re my little spoon.”

“Yes,” Steve whispered, trembling.

“It’s okay,” Bucky murmured. “I’m here. I’m here.”

 _I love you_ , but he couldn’t say it.

Steve pulled their linked hands up and…kissed Bucky’s metal fingers. He kept their hands to his mouth, spoke with lips to metal. “I’ve missed you so much, Buck, my Bucky. I’ve been missing you for more than seventy years.” Another choked, garbled sound. “You took my heart with you down that ravine, and my soul, and I’ve been wandering around…empty. A shadow, a memory, a little bit of nothing dressed in a hero costume who did all that was asked because I truly did not care. I had nothing, not even myself, when I lost you.”

“ _Steve_.” Prayer, curse, seventy years of pain and a love that was bigger than everything, all of that he poured into the name that contained the entire Universe.

“I am so sorry, Buck.” Steve was crying, Gods in all the realms, he was crying.

“Don’t cry, Steve, please, it’s okay,” he rasped, and pulled and manhandled Steve until he turned and hid his face on Bucky’s chest. “I’m here. We’re here. We’re safe.” He didn’t know what to say, what to do.

“I just… I’m so selfish. I let you fall. I let you be hurt and tortured and used…and all I can think now that you’re here is _please don’t leave_.” He gripped Bucky’s shirt so hard he ripped it a bit at the collar. “You have all the right and reasons to despise me, to _hate_ me—”

What. No.

“Shut the fuck up.” Bucky put a hand over Steve’s dumb mouth, for good measure. “Just. Shut up.” Cradling his big dumbass to his chest, he put his lips near Steve’s ear. “I don’t hate you, Steve, I could never hate you, even if I tried. I—” He choked. “Don’t make me say it, Steve. I can’t.”

“Buck.” A sob, muffled under Bucky’s hand.

“You know. You’ve always known. It’s still the same, Steve.” Gritting his teeth, he splayed both his hands over Steve’s back, tightening his embrace, willing him to understand. “Til the end of the line.”

“Til the end of the line,” Steve echoed, strangled, tears flowing from his crystal blue eyes, hands fisted on Bucky’s shirt. He shoved a knee between Bucky’s legs, trying to get impossibly closer, hiding, burrowing into Bucky’s body, wrecked by sobs. Bucky welcomed him, tried to be shelter and refuge. How he wished he could be everything Steve wanted, everything Steve needed.

“Shh, don’t cry.” He kissed Steve’s temple, tenderly, like coming home. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve cried for a long while, and Bucky held him, making soothing noises, softly caressing everything he could reach.

Thinking back on what he knew about the old Bucky, about things Steve had said, Bucky supposed Steve had kept all his grief, all his fears and rage trapped inside for a long, long time. Maybe as long as Bucky had carried everything he’d let loose that first night on the road.

It seemed unfair, that both of them carried around so much pain. Or at least, that Steve did. Bucky deserved Hell and pain and suffering. But Steve…why hadn’t the Universe been kinder, more _just_ for him. Steve deserved so much better than what he’d received.

No matter. Bucky couldn’t make the fucking Universe behave. Couldn’t turn time around.

However.

For some unfathomable reason, he made Steve happy. Just by being there, by Steve’s side. So he would do that. He would give Steve as much happiness as he could, for as long as Steve wanted him.

 _Not allowed_. His gut clenched in fear, a nebulous terror curling on his belly.

Running his fingers over golden hair, he felt as Steve’s giant body finally quieted, went lax on Bucky’s arms. Steve sighed, a deep, shuddering sigh, circled one of his arms around Bucky, nuzzling his neck delicately, and whispered, shaking, “I got you back. I can’t believe I got you back.”

“Yeah, you got me, Stevie.” Bucky kissed his temple _._

 _Allowed_ , Bucky decided, defying whatever law of the universe or conditioning or what the fuck ever said otherwise. Allowed to be near Steve to fulfill the most important mission: protect Steve. Make Steve happy.

Something clicked, shifted, slid into place inside his skull.

 _Protect. Happy_.

_Allowed._

*

Dawn conquered the room, illuminating the slumberous quiet floating around them. Slowly, syrupy, Bucky filtered back into the world.

Steve hadn’t closed the shutters on his windows last night—there was a skylight on the sloped wall over the bed, and an arched, glass-paneled sliding door to the side, which opened to the porch.

Sleepy, eyes closed, he realized he’d been gifted another night free of insomnia, terror or pain. His nightmares were definitely scared of Steve and his soft snores.

Snores that whispered over Bucky’s skin at the moment. A strong, solid arm had nestled around Bucky’s belly, rising and falling with each shared breath. Steve had hidden his face on the curve of Bucky’s neck, burrowing into Bucky as close as possible, the curve of his knee weighting on Bucky’s thighs. Steve had taken a long time to really calm down the night before, even after his tears had dried out. Shudders had shaken his body, his fingers curling almost spasmodically on Bucky’s back, his clothes. The shirt he’d stolen from Steve was ruined, torn at the collar and the back.

No matter. He’d steal another. Buy Steve a million shirts and all the strawberry milkshakes in existence.

The only thing that mattered was Steve in his arms, sleeping, safe, peaceful. The light threads cradling Bucky’s heart felt warm and drowsy too, lazy with Steve’s contentment. Bucky sighed deeply, inhaling the scent of sleepy Steve, carding his fingers through golden hair, gently, careful not to awake him.

The room was warm, and Bucky was so infinitely comfortable, he didn’t let the light disturb him, didn’t bother to open his eyes. The bed was the perfect combination of soft and hard. Hard enough to provide support, and soft enough that he felt sheltered and safe. Just like Steve.

It was a Steve-bed.

“You sleep in a Steve-bed,” Bucky murmured, sleepy. “This is a very Steve-bed.”

“What?” Steve’s soft, puzzled question startled the sleepiness out of Bucky in a flash. The light must have awakened him too.

Oh Gods and goddesses and assorted mythological creatures, he couldn’t believe he’d just blurted that out. He covered his face with his metal palm. “Nothing.”

“What is a ‘Steve-bed’, Buck?” Steve nuzzled Bucky’s neck and cradled his opposite shoulder with a warm hand, kneading the muscle.

“Nothing.”

“You’re going to tell me eventually.” Amused fondness colored Steve’s certainty, and Bucky sighed, drowning happily in this easy familiarity. “Why don’t you save us time and tell me now?”

“No.” He could be as stubborn as Steve.

Okay, maybe _almost_ as stubborn as Steve.

Maybe half.

But he was a dullahan, a soul collector, the fucking _Winter Soldier_ , dammit. He wouldn’t give in right away. He would not.

“I can wait,” Steve said and looked up, soft and amused lips, cheeks delightfully pink from sleep, eyes a bit swollen from crying. “I can be patient.”

“No you can’t.” Bucky smiled, clasped Steve more tightly to his chest, kissed his forehead tenderly.

“I waited seventy years for you, Buck.” Voice so soft, so certain and awed. “I can be patient if you need me to.”

And the damn broke, the last restraint snapped open. Bucky was overcome with ferocious tenderness, a tidal wave that swallowed his being, reformed his bones into a new thing, a thing that belonged wholly to Steve, to this starlight turned human. Bucky cradled Steve’s face with infinite gentleness, thumb caressing his cheek, a question in his eyes. Steve’s gaze said _yes_.

Bucky closed his eyes, closed the small space between them, and kissed Steve.

Not like the first time, hurried, startled, but slow, sweet. The contact warmed his lips, burned through his blood as Steve’s sigh curled inside his mouth and down his throat. Steve clasped the back of Bucky’s head, adjusting the angle to get closer, to lick Bucky’s lower lip, inviting, tentative. Bucky slipped his tongue between those plush lips, seeking, exploring. Steve’s tongue found his own, sending a shock of awareness and aliveness down Bucky’s spine, his limbs, making his toes curl, his body press into Steve’s warmth.

Bucky would never be the same. There was no place in him to hide from the truth any longer. Steve was his soul, almost literally. He’d occupied all of Bucky’s empty spaces for so long, and now his kiss, his touch, cast light into the darkest corners, Steve’s blinding supernova creating galaxies and life underneath Bucky’s skin.

“Steve,” he gasped into Steve’s mouth, but words were not enough, were nothing, so he bit Steve’s lips, one after the other, gently, hungry and needy. Steve answered with the same sweet savagery, grabbing Bucky’s hair in a tight fist and pulling, wrenching a strangled moan from his throat, lightning striking him from head to toe, his skin burning, breath stuttering as Steve’s tongue conquered his mouth, licking into him, curling around his own tongue.

Steve pushed until Bucky was under him, never breaking the kiss, and nestled between his legs. Bucky welcomed the weight, the warmth, the strength and gentleness anchoring him to this moment, to Steve, his Steve, his sunlight, kissing him, touching him.

“Buck, my Bucky,” Steve murmured against his jaw, nuzzling his stubble.

Eyes closed, Bucky embraced Steve, his sweet Steve, arms protecting Steve’s back, hands over his shoulder blades, keeping him close, warm and alive. Fist closed tight on his hair, Steve covered his face in soft kisses, ran fingers over his cheeks, his neck, kissed his nose, then his lips again, another sweet, hungry kiss.

Bucky forgot the existence of time, past or future or anything beyond the confines of his skin, Steve’s skin. The Universe contracted to their bodies, their shared breath, the sweetness of being together.

Eons later, after life had ended and begun anew, after all the stars had died and been reborn, after, after, they came back to a small, cozy cabin somewhere in the mountains. Came back to some sort of reality, and unbelievably, Steve was still there, laying by his side, touching Bucky’s hair tenderly. They were quiet for a bit, unmoving, just breathing.

The sun was higher now, its light brighter, a promise of a beautiful autumn day out there.

“Sometimes I’m afraid I’m dreaming,” Steve said quietly. “Maybe I’m still under the ice, and this is all—” He hid his face on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky waited, cradling him, allowing Steve space to unload this, to say the things that Bucky could feel had been lodged in his throat for a long time. “You coming back to me, Buck, it was. Impossible. I never stopped hoping, I tried, but I couldn’t. I _felt_ like you were there, somehow.”

“Like this.” Bucky clasped Steve’s hand and put it over his own heart. “Here.”

“Yes. Do you…?”

“No. I don’t know what it is, or how. But I feel it.” He tightened his grip, narrowed his eyes, mock-scowling. “And you know that, you punk. You’ve literally yanked my chain a few times.”

Steve _giggled_. He fucking _giggled_. “Guess I did.”

Absolutely not charmed, not finding it endearing at all, Bucky asked, “How is it possible for a giant pile of dumbassery and boulders like you to—” He configured his face in a disgusted, nearly-barfing display, “—giggle?”

“You’re such a jerk,” Steve spluttered, laughing, and wrestled Bucky under him again. Bucky put his arms around Steve’s enormous shoulders, trying to immobilize him, and _that_ was a mistake. Even with his arms pinned by his sides, Steve managed to grab Bucky’s waist and clench his fingers, tickling him.

“Steve,” Bucky moaned as his dick twitched, and Steve froze. Swallowing hard, Bucky tightened his arms like steel bands around Steve, buried his face on the soft curve of his neck, and garbled, “Do it again. Only once. One time.”

Turning his head to the side so their faces touched, Steve did it, clenching his fingers deliberately, purposefully, twitching and wrenching another moan from Bucky, panting in his ear as Bucky’s hips moved up and clashed on Steve’s hard dick.

Bucky wasn’t hard, he wasn’t ready yet, but oh this feeling, this feeling of submitting to Steve’s will, of being helpless and under Steve’s control. His eyes rolled back, all of it heady and intoxicating.

As was Steve’s respect for his boundaries, his patience. Steve was obviously aroused—and that was such a turn on, Steve being aroused by Bucky despite his issues, his ugly body, his weird quirks—his cock hard against Bucky’s hip, and he was panting, his hands now cradling Bucky’s waist as he pressed a sweet kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “Okay?”

Gentling his embrace, Bucky kissed Steve’s temple. “Yes, Stevie.” He sighed. “Not ready yet, but maybe. Maybe soon.”

“You know that’s okay. I don’t want—”

“ I do. I do know, and I do want.” He pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s lips, lingering, carding his hair, and Steve melted sweetly to him, sighing into his mouth.

A heartbeat later, Steve moved back and his gaze pierced all the way into Bucky’s heart. “Just…don’t feel pressured at all, alright? Promise me.”

“Ugh, you’re so—”

“I’m serious, Buck.” His face softened. “Promise me, so I won’t worry about making you do something you don’t want to. About taking choice away from you. Please.”

“Oh, Stevie.” Sighing, Bucky ran a comforting hand over Steve’s spine, pressing his legs around Steve’s hips. “You know all my soft spots, don’t you. Yes, I promise.”

“Thank you.” Steve tucked a strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and looked out the window. “It’s still early. Wanna go for a hike?”

Bucky arched a brow. “Are you going to kill me and dump my body down a ravine?”

“I don’t know.” Smiling, Steve pushed up and out of the bed, stripping off his shirt on the way to his dresser. Bucky swallowed hard at the miles of golden muscle on display. Steve looked over his shoulder with a challenging smirk. “Why don’t you find out?”

“Do you really think you could take the Winter Soldier down?” Bucky stretched and sat up, feet on the cool wooden floor, rolling his eyes very pointedly.

Steve walked back to stand between Bucky’s legs, looking down on him. “I’ve been recently informed that there’s a possibility of taking the Winter Soldier in my near future, yes.” He cradled Bucky’s jaw gently but firmly, a hint of an order on his long fingers, guiding Bucky’s face up, keeping him captive. Bucky’s skin felt hot, his breath stuttered, and Steve’s smirk turned predatory and full of promise. “Or maybe he’s the one who’ll take me. We haven’t talked logistics yet.”

“Nghhh.” Bucky’s highly articulated response turned Steve’s smirk into a shit-eating, incandescent grin. Bucky would have said something to wipe said grin from Steve’s face, hadn’t he been busy melting into the pit of fire that had ignited in his lower belly, liquefying his insides.

“C’mon, Buck!” Steve straightened up and made his way to the bathroom, shucking his pajama pants as he walked, giving Bucky a very, _very_ nice view of his very, _Very-with-a-capital-V_ fine ass. He was too perky and energetic for this hour, after the night they’d had, after having turned Bucky’s blood into molten magma. “Shower and then a hike up the mountain. You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

With that, he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, leaving Bucky to try to find his scattered wits around the room and between the bed covers. There were probably some under the bed, too.

*

After he recombobulated his brain—as much as he could, anyway—Bucky followed Steve to the bathroom and asked him to keep watch while he showered, immediately after Steve.

Their almost-shared showers had become routine, normalcy, reassuring not only because Steve was there, but because it was a _them_ thing, intimate and sweet like Steve’s smiles. It made Bucky happy to be able to recover something that, even though he didn’t remember clearly, they’d shared in the Before. To have this new, ordinary togetherness, to be able to give this back to Steve, too.

Their shared nakedness felt natural, never awkward or shy. Still, Bucky carefully didn’t allow his gaze to go lower than Steve’s ridiculously tiny waist. Everything above it was enough of a distraction.

He didn’t want to have to go hunting down his wits under the bed again, thank you very much.

Before Bucky could finish getting dressed after the shower, Steve approached him with a bottle of sunscreen in hand and mischief in the crinkles of his face. “Turn away.”

Shirt grasped on tight fingers, Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“C’mon, I just want to put sunscreen on your back.” Steve’s weapon-of-mass-destruction-blush hit Bucky with its full force. Narrowing his eyes to slits didn’t help. “Please?”

“You fight dirty, Rogers,” he grumbled as he turned away.

Steve didn’t say anything. A second later, his fingers slid over Bucky’s shoulder, digging sweetly into his muscles, kneading. Totally and obviously unnecessary movements to spread sunscreen.

Bucky protested it by letting his head hang low, opening his stance for more balance, and sighing. If he closed his eyes and fell into a sort of trance, it was nobody’s business. Steve took such good care of him, working the knots he could find with strong, sure fingers, gentling his touch when it mapped his scars, avoiding the symbols along Bucky’s spine.

All of Bucky’s back, and then his flesh arm, and then he made Bucky turn back to spread the sunscreen over his chest, his belly. Eyes soft, smile soft, he looked contented and focused, while Bucky floated in a cloud of endorphins and happiness.

“Alright, all finished.” Steve’s low voice pulled Bucky gently back to Earth. The blush had found its way down his neck to color his chest, and Bucky wanted to lick it. All of it. “Will you do me now?”

Soaked in endorphins and sweetness, Bucky’s brain went full _I-am-confusion_ mode. “I…What.”

Steve pressed his smile tightly between closed lips, but it bloomed into his eyes, deepening the shade and curve of his cheekbones. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?”

Oscillating between mortifying embarrassment and mellow arousal, Bucky nodded and took the bottle from Steve, fingers steady only thanks to sheer determination and seventy years of training.

Steve turned away from him, and. Gods.

Gods and semi-Gods and Charon’s oars, Steve’s back was a miracle of beauty in all of creation. Bucky had seen it, not long ago. Up close, however, within _licking distance…_

Bucky’s fingers clenched convulsively, and he swallowed. He wouldn’t lick Steve’s back, he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

“Nghhh.” He heard himself emit that choked, garbled noise, gritted his teeth.

“Everything okay, Buck?” Steve asked, his voice laughing and Bucky _knew_ his eyes were glistening with laughter, too.

Instead of dignifying Steve’s appalling behavior with an answer, he dripped sunscreen on his flesh fingers and slathered it on Steve’s back, right under his neck. Steve sucked a breath and Bucky bit his lip, stopping for a moment to regain control of his knees. Steve’s skin was oh so soft, except where faint lines crisscrossed it in an x—the shield’s harness, Bucky realized.

He wanted to break the damn frisbee in two and toss it to the depths of the Abyss.

Trying to be as gentle as Steve had been, feeling awkward and clumsy, he slid his palm over the smooth expanse of Steve’s shoulders, applying a little bit of pressure, going up to the side of the neck, kneading there, too.

Steve tilted his head to the opposite side and groaned. “ _Yes_ , there, right _there_ , please,” the asshole said, low and gravelly, because he was an asshole—and gave Bucky a boner.

Breath and thought escaped Bucky completely. He curled forward, clasped Steve’s shoulder for balance as his metal hand flew to cup his own cock, throbbing full and heavy between his legs. His second boner in seventy years.

“Please don’t stop.” Steve’s deep voice, breathy, scraped over Bucky’s skin, curled around his dick, and Bucky realized the sunscreen must have been a ploy.

A ploy to give him a fucking boner.

Powerless to stop, he stepped closer, close enough to feel Steve’s warmth. Feeling hungry, greedy, he dripped more sunscreen on Steve’s shoulders and started spreading it all over his back, digging fingers into solid muscle, grasping and stroking wherever he could. Arms, biceps, Steve’s waist and the upper swell of his hips. Mouth open right next to Steve’s ear, inhaling his scent, almost, almost tasting his golden skin. As he listened to Steve’s heavy, slow breaths, Bucky’s touch morphed into something unhurried, sensual, intimate, wondrous.

Minutes or hours later, who the fuck knew or cared, Steve shivered. “Buck.” Gurgled, strangled. “You need to stop or I’m going to come.”

The words hit him like lightning, like touching a live wire. Bucky lost all semblance of control. He plastered himself to Steve’s back, pressed his hard cock against the cleft of his ass, and Steve’s knees buckled. Bucky twined his metal arm around him, across his chest, to keep him upright, metal hand clasped firm and gentle around his throat, thumb caressing the point where Steve’s pulse drummed wildly under his skin.

Steve moaned an almost pained, “ _Oh_.”

“This—” Bucky murmured, lips brushing an earlobe, grinding his hardness on Steve’s ass, eyes closing under the onslaught of pleasure, “—is your fault.” He nuzzled behind Steve’s ear. “You’re so beautiful, Steve. I wanna lick you all over.” Finally, finally, he gave in to his deepest desire and licked a wide, wet stripe on the back of Steve’s neck. It tasted of sunscreen and glory, hot, pulsing, alive.

“Bucky, oh, _Buck_ —” Steve pressed back, pushing that round, delicious ass on Bucky’s cock, wrenching pleasure and garbled moans from Bucky’s rapidly overloading body.

Groaning, Bucky fucked against Steve’s ass, closed his flesh fingers around Steve’s cock, over his pants, dragging a loud cry from his lips. The thin fabric allowed him to discover the curves and ridges of his big, swollen dick, and Bucky’s mouth watered. Slowly, he dragged his hand up, caressed Steve’s naked lower belly, dipped his fingertips under Steve’s waistband and stopped there to ask breathless, “Is this okay?”

“Yes, _please._ ” Steve threw his head back on Bucky’s shoulder and pushed his hips up, hands coming back to grab Bucky’s hips and drag him closer.

Eyes nearly crossing with arousal, Bucky slid his hand down, inside Steve’s pants. He nuzzled Steve’s face, licked his jawline as his fingers found hot skin, and he enveloped Steve’s dick with a firm grip. It was dripping, the wetness allowing his hand to slide smoothly, obscenely, over and over, thumb caressing the scorching hot tip in every upstroke, spreading the precome all over Steve’s dick.

“Gods, Steve,” he moaned. Dragging his hand up and down, he jerked Steve off as he rubbed his own hard cock against his peach butt, feeling Steve alternate between fucking up into Bucky’s fist and pressing back on Bucky’s cock.

Feverish, incoherent, he licked Steve’s neck again, mouthed over his shoulder, painting Steve’s skin with his tongue before giving in to some obscure, primal instinct and biting the point where his neck met his shoulder, sinking teeth on muscle.

“Buck. _Bucky_.” Steve’s dick pulsed and sticky liquid dripped over Bucky’s fingers as Steve buckled, crying out, coming on Bucky’s hand.

Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. His whole being was molten, liquid fire spreading through his veins as Steve chased the remains of his pleasure on Bucky’s fist, chanting _Bucky Bucky Bucky._ Delirious with lust, Bucky rutted into him like an animal, blind with need, panting, face buried in his back, and suddenly everything in him tensed, coiled, breathless, breathless.

The explosion burned his skin, a shock wave from the base of his spine to his limbs, devastating everything in its wake, pleasure so deep and intense it was like dying. His dick spurted in big pulses, making a mess of himself and Steve, his beloved Steve, who’d turned his face to nuzzle Bucky’s jaw, open mouth over his neck, groaning, pushing back on Bucky, sharing this with him. Oh, Steve.

“You’re everything,” Bucky found himself whispering to soft skin, clasping Steve’s chest with both arms in something too desperate and honest to be a hug. He closed his eyes. “You’re everything, Steve.”

“Buck.” Sighing, Steve brought a hand back up to card his hair, and Bucky sighed too. For a minute they breathed together, coming back from the high, putting together the particles of them that had been scattered through the Universe. Then, “Can I hug you?”

Steve, sweet Steve. Bucky nodded and Steve turned, arms coming up to clasp Bucky’s back, cradling him as Bucky leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder. Bucky kissed the curve of his jaw, softly, body and soul vibrating with awareness, energy, _life_.

Steve looked down at him, so much trust and hope shining clear and blue in his eyes. The only possible thing was to close the small space separating them and kiss Steve, feel his lips hot and full on his own, swallow the sweet sigh that escaped Steve’s mouth.

This was also like dying, like living, like flying.

Steve’s fingers found their way up to his neck, to his hair, soft caresses speaking of love and care and longing. Bucky hoped his touch, his kiss, told the truths he couldn’t shape into words yet.

 _I love you, Steve. I need you. I don’t want to be away from you ever again_.

Sweet and slow, the kiss ended after an eon or three, in a shared breath. Everything that had happened suddenly felt monumental, life changing, terrifying. Scared uncertainty curdled around his thighs, chained his legs to the floor. Bucky didn’t know what to say, where to go from there.

He shouldn’t have worried. Steve did.

“We need another shower,” Steve said, and giggled.

Gods have mercy on him. Steve _giggled_. Bucky shook his head and scrunched his nose up, pressing his lips tightly before he told Steve the truth: his giggling was adorable.

“C’mon!” Steve towed him to the bathroom, grinning. “We’re losing daylight!”

*

Freshly re-showered, they packed two backpacks with hearty lunches and plenty of drinks and set out.

Golden sunlight bathed everything, the air still crisp with morning and beginnings, birds and little critters chirping from the trees and bushes, dry leaves crunching under their boots as they walked into an autumn painting symphony. Bucky inhaled deeply, slowly. Greedily. Perhaps because he’d existed for so long in dirty shadows and frozen ice, he enjoyed immensely the fresh air, being under the sun, warming his old bones. Being near _his_ sun, who’d forced him to go through the whole sunscreen ritual _again_ before they left the cabin.

Who’d very helpfully slathered him _again_ with sunscreen, and then _again_ had asked Bucky to do the same.

“Just don’t lick it off. I’m gonna take my shirt off and I don’t want to get sunburned,” the asshole had said, because he was an asshole. And had given Bucky _another_ fucking boner.

And he shouldn’t be thinking of fucking if he wanted this fuck—jfc. He needed his boner to go down, away, to take a short walk off a long pier.

No, wait. That wasn’t right.

As if he could read Bucky’s thoughts, Steve’s eyes were laughing, _again_! This was definitely a ploy.

Bucky would show him. The Winter Soldier was _not_ to be trifled with.

Once they got under way, as soon as they began their ascent and he was sweating a little, Bucky stopped and put his backpack down.

Steve stopped too, frowning. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” His hands trembled for a moment as he grasped his shirt, remembering. His ugly scars, his body distorted, mutilated.

Whatever. If Steve didn’t care—he hadn’t turned away from Bucky’s body, not once—Bucky wouldn’t care either. And really, what was a bunch of scars and a metal arm when you’re a living, moving skeleton?

Determination straightened his spine. He whipped his shirt off and ran a hand down his hair, wishing he’d brought a hair tie, and—and Steve licked his lips, crystal blue turning azure, pupils blown wide, that gorgeous blush darkening his face. Bucky suddenly regretted not seeing Steve’s face when he came, realizing the blush must have gone down, down, so deep…

This was so not helping with his boner problem.

Mentally rolling his eyes at his own dumbassery, he hoisted his backpack up to his shoulder and jerked his head towards the path. “Let’s go.”

“Just a sec,” Steve said. “Come here.”

Unthinking, Bucky did as he asked, trusting Steve as he didn’t remember trusting anything or anyone else, ever. Up close, Steve’s breath slid over Bucky’s skin, and he could see faint freckles dusting his cheekbones.

To no one’s surprise, Bucky wanted to lick them. He sighed.

“Stay still.” Steve smiled and buried his fingers in Bucky’s hair, one hand to each side, threading his fingers through the whole length of the strands, gaze soft. He repeated the motion, untangling and gathering all of Bucky’s locks, to tie them in a ponytail with a hair tie he removed from his wrist. “Too tight?”

“Just right,” Bucky garbled out. He could have expired in a pool of goo at the gentleness, sweetness, thoughtfulness of the gesture. “Thanks, Steve.”

“My pleasure.” Steve skimmed a thumb over the curve of Bucky’s mouth, dragging a bit at the corner, took it away before Bucky could dart his tongue out to lick it. “Shall we go?”

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded. Steve clasped his hand, entwining their fingers, his steps sure and strong as they walked up the path.

Two hours later, they stopped for lunch. Steve had chosen the spot, a high, small rocky outcrop shaded by pines. The rocks provided relatively comfortable seats under the shade of the trees, a breathtaking view of mountains, wild forests and exuberant fall colors extending for kilometers under their feet, as far as their eyes could reach, to meld into the impossibly blue Madrid sky.

“I love this spot,” Steve murmured as he put his backpack down. “Whenever I was able to spend any time at the cabin, I came here almost every day.”

“It’s so peaceful,” Bucky said in the same hushed tones, neither of them willing to break the quiet.

“I never—” He pulled Bucky to a sideway embrace and leaned his head against Bucky’s temple. Bucky’s arm automatically came up to encircle Steve’s waist. “I never thought I’d have you here with me. I wanted, I hoped, but…”

“It’s alright, Steve.” He pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s cheek. “We’re here. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s sigh spoke volumes, spoke of the same things twirling under Bucky’s ribs. Happiness, contentment, the miracle of being together, safe, alive.

Supersoldier bodies didn’t much care for the miraculousness of being alive if not properly fed, however. Soon they had to break apart and sit down to eat their lunch, laughing at the grumbles coming from Steve’s belly.

After eating, the quiet drifted over them. Sitting side by side, they savored the view, Bucky’s head on Steve’s shoulder, hands entwined.

Eyes full of the blue sky, almost as beautiful as Steve’s eyes, Bucky breathed, existed, steady and solid under Steve’s fingers, held in his heart. If he was allowed to touch, to protect, to be here, he needed to believe in something. Needed to believe he was something other than a monster.

Squeezing Steve’s hand, he sighed. When Steve looked at him, he didn’t see a monster, a killer. He saw a person, a human being. He’d said _you’re amazing, Buck_. He’d said _don’t go_.

Bucky couldn’t believe in himself, couldn’t trust that. But he could believe Steve.

Like the travelers of old, he’d follow the sun and trust he’d find his way.

*

Late afternoon found them walking back to the cabin, surrounded by cooling wind, everything tinted in pinks and purples as the sun retired for the night.

There hadn’t been many words, after lunch. Bucky wasn’t bothered by the silence. They both needed quiet and space to process everything that had happened earlier.

The past few days.

The last seventy years.

Hand in hand they walked, unhurried, savoring the remains of the day, listening to each other’s steady steps and the nocturnal creatures making their presences known.

Once they entered the cabin, Steve asked, smiling, “Shower?”

“Yeah, okay.” He matched Steve’s smile, overwhelmed with so much contentment and peace, he didn’t know what to do with it or himself. Underneath it, his body brimmed with a weird sensation, so foreign and forgotten it took him a while to recognize it.

Fear.

For so long, he hadn’t had anything worthy of being taken. Hadn’t cared about anything enough or at all, really. And now, this place, and candy, and soft clothes. Wisps of being a person, threads of gold under his ribs. Milkshakes and the fog over the mountains. Contentment and laughter and something to fight for. Someone to protect, to love, to make happy.

Steve.

Now he had a person made of starlight. His person, his sun.

And he was terrified all of it would be taken from him.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” Steve touched his shoulder gently and he realized he’d frozen, looking down unseeing at the straps of the backpack he’d been holding. One of them was torn.

Mouth open, breath trapped in his throat, he lifted his gaze to Steve. Steve was blurry. “I’m scared.” The confession dripped out of him without his permission, along with the tears he didn’t manage to blink back. “I’m scared I’ll lose you. Everything.”

“Oh, Buck.” Steve pulled him into his arms and Bucky let the backpack fall to the floor, clinging to Steve’s torso like a castaway. “You’re not going to lose me.” He spoke against Bucky’s hair, breath and sound weaving a spell. “I’ll be by your side for as long as you let me. I’ll burn the fucking world down if need be.”

“Likewise,” Bucky managed to choke out, closing his eyes and squeezing his beloved giant.

Steve kissed his forehead, his temple, his cheek, held him for a while. From some depth of memory he remembered how they used to sync their breathing, in and out, when Steve’s lungs forgot how to function and Bucky needed to tamp down the panic that threatened to eat him whole every time Stevie was sick. He did it now, slow, measured, counting seconds. Steve immediately joined him, tracing soothing circles over his back, like Bucky used to.

“I’m okay,” he finally murmured, looking up and managing a small smile. “Shower?”

“Of course, Buck.” Steve’s smile would never cease to paint all of creation in color and light.

Both of them being good soldiers, they decided to unpack the backpacks and put their stuff away before getting cleaned up. The familiar protocol and the simple tasks allowed him to focus, keep breathing, finish calming down.

Seeing the torn strap of the backpack prickled Bucky with a twinge of sadness, but he decided he’d repair it. He knew how to sew, and Steve probably had the necessary supplies somewhere. The thought of giving something broken, something that most people would just throw away, a second chance…It warmed his heart. The thought of repairing something _he_ had broken felt a lot like hope.

The shower followed their usual procedure. Bucky first, Steve last, both keeping watch over each other. There was, however, something new in the air, the electricity of an approaching storm. Their gazes lingered over skin, asking, teasing, in a dance of questions and possibilities.

They were definitely gearing up for _something_. Both of them knew what it was. Neither of them said anything.

Bucky savored the anticipation like a fine whiskey. It burned sweetly down his throat and filled his head with mellow anticipation exactly like the finest liquor, making his muscles languid and warm.

“We’re going to take a nap,” Steve said as Bucky pulled his boxers up his legs after his shower.

“What?” Bucky’s brain was occupied lamenting the fact Steve was already dressed in pajama pants. His torso was absolutely magnificent, but Bucky would have spent at least six centuries contemplating Steve’s whole body gloriously naked, if anyone had asked him about it.

“A nap. Come here.” Without waiting for Bucky’s brain to come back online, the asshole wrestled him to the bed.

Oh, the cool sheets were nice, so nice. Not to mention the furnace against his back, smooth skin sliding soothingly over Bucky’s scars, the solid arm curled around his waist, anchoring him to this moment.

“This is stupid,” Bucky grumbled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. The protest was more of a matter of principle. Or maybe habit. He didn’t know, or care. He was too busy melting, dissolving in a puddle of contentedness and pleasant tiredness.

“Whatever. Nap,” Steve slurred, nuzzling his neck.

“That an order?”

“Mhjftyph.” Steve was already half-way asleep, face buried against his nape. “Bucky, my grumpy Bucky.” The whisper made way to deep breaths and then slight snores.

All of Bucky stilled, quieted. Being in Steve’s arms, both of them warm and safe, would never cease to be the most amazing, soul-healing thing.

He didn’t think Steve had stopped for even a day after coming back from the ice. Neither of them had really rested since the 1940s. Vague unease in the pit of his stomach spoke of Steve not ever being still before that, either.

But together…Together, in a shared bed, they could find peace. A space for rest and being still, and sleep, skin to skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!


	11. Outside The Dawn Is Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home.

In the dark, laying by Steve’s side, Bucky guarded his sun’s rest. As he watched the moonlight kiss golden skin and turn it pale silver, instead of nightmares, Bucky’s skull was slowly filled with memories, pouring in drop by drop.

Just a few days ago, he’d gone back to his apartment thinking it was over. He’d walked into an ending, and instead found a start.

It seemed so long ago.

He’d been ready to die yet another death, thought he was losing everything again. A walking shard of light dressed in a ridiculous costume had said otherwise, however. Had grabbed his shoulder and rescued him from Hell.

Had asked _do you remember me._

Bucky had never known anything or anyone else, not really. There was still an Abyss where many of his memories should be, but the bones knew. The bones had guarded the truth, had saved the stories Bucky couldn’t remember and yet were part of his very being.

The bones had kept Steve’s light inside, safe.

Steve. Star, sunshine, the only reason for Bucky’s existence. He looked so sweet asleep, mouth parted, face relaxed, body unguarded. Steve had never, _ever_ put any barriers or defenses up against Bucky.

The giant dumbass.

Ferocious tenderness erupted inside his chest, crawled through his limbs and moved his hand to trace Steve’s brow lightly, his temple, the curve of his cheekbone.

With a sigh, Steve opened his eyes and looked up at him, lips curling up in a happy, sleepy smile. “Hi, Buck.” Steve’s eyes softened as his hand cradled Bucky jaw before tucking a wayward lock of hair behind his ear.

“You’re everything,” Bucky whispered, fingers gentle over Steve’s beloved face, their gazes locked. Pushing himself half over him, he rested his forehead over Steve’s. “Everything.”

“Buck.” Soft, barely a breath that Bucky took directly from Steve’s lips in a kiss.

Kissing Steve was drinking life from the source, was forgetting heaven and Hell and becoming pure light. Their mouths came together in a rush, heady and fast, hungry for one another. Steve clasped the back of his head, pulling him closer, biting and sucking Bucky’s lower lip, wrenching a groan from him, fire racing up his spine.

Feeling drunk, melting and greedy, Bucky licked into him, tongue exploring Steve’s mouth, his whole being wanting to devour and consume him.

Delighted by Steve’s husky moans, Bucky fisted his blond hair and pulled, turning Steve’s head to the side so he could lick his neck, his ear, and murmur there, “I want to lick you all over, been dreaming of it for a while.” He mouthed perfect skin, sinking his teeth on Steve’s shoulder before going back to his ear and sucking his earlobe, making him shudder.

“Anything you want,” Steve grunted, hips snapping up to grind on Bucky’s thigh. “Anything, Buck, _Bucky_ —” His words turned to unintelligible noises when Bucky swiveled so he was between Steve’s legs, his own cock dragging over Steve’s, their hardnesses separated only by flimsy fabric.

Breathless, Bucky asked, “Is it okay—”

“Anything. Please, just don’t stop.” Steve planted his feet on the bed, rolled his hips and Bucky moaned, pleasure assaulting his entire body, his dick hard and leaking, thoughts starting to fade to distilled lust.

Fingers trembling, Bucky grasped the waistband of Steve’s pajamas and dragged it down, freeing Steve’s heavy cock. It was blood hot, looking angry, swollen, dripping at the tip. Gorgeous.

Biting his lip, Bucky palmed it, gave it one stroke, up and down. “I want to suck you, later, but now—” Now he needed to feel it against his skin, so he took his own dick out. The first touch of their naked cocks was too much, so much pleasure Bucky thought he’d passed out for a second.

Steve arched up, groaning low and hoarse, hands grabbing Bucky’s ass to press him down as Steve rutted into him. They were both leaking, making the slide easier, slicker, mind-blowing. Bucky lowered his head to kiss Steve, grinding down on his cock, spurred by Steve’s nails clawing at his butt. The kiss was messy and feral, biting and breathless.

The sounds Steve made, his agonizing groans and broken words ran through Bucky’s veins like fire, connecting every fiber of his being to this moment, to Steve’s pleasure and his body.

Remembering how much Steve had liked it when Bucky jerked him off, Bucky encircled both their dicks with a tight fist, and _oh all the Gods and the stars above_ , Bucky was going to melt, catch fire, die. Steve cried out sharply, his hips pistoning hard and fast inside Bucky’s fist, dragging his length against Bucky’s cock. Bucky rested his forehead on Steve’s shoulder and let Steve take him for the ride, panting open mouthed over hot skin, licking Steve’s neck, his shoulder, everything he could reach.

The friction tightened the strings of pleasure, again and again until Steve turned his head and said to Bucky’s hair, strangled, “I’m gonna come.”

“Yes, _please_ , come for me,” Bucky babbled in Steve’s ear, matching his thrusts in perfect sync. “ _Steve._ ”

And they were coming together, drenching Bucky’s hand and their stomachs in the most perfect mess Bucky could have ever wanted. Their lips found each other for a savage kiss punctuated by groans and licks and half-words, as Bucky tightened his fist and wrenched the last few drops of pleasure and come from their joining.

Once they were done, all of Bucky’s muscles turned to liquid at once. Groaning, he allowed himself to lay down, half over Steve, head on his shoulder.

Steve cradled him tenderly to his chest and kissed his forehead, sighed. “Buck.”

So much said with those four letters. Bucky didn’t know how to respond, so he nuzzled Steve’s neck and said nothing.

Until Steve asked, softly, “Okay?” Checking in. Sweet Steve.

 _More than okay. Amazing. Better than anything, better than everything, ever_. Shy and giddy, Bucky hid his face, his smile, on Steve’s chest, grabbed Steve’s hand to kiss his knuckles and squeeze his fingers gently. “Very.”

Steve pressed a smile to his temple. “Alright.”

They dozed for a while, sated and content and sticky and messy.

Bucky didn’t want to move ever again. He’d stay forever in this moment, if he could.

Sleepy, he moved his leg up and his thigh brushed Steve’s cock. Steve was still hard. Oh Gods. Lust coiled in his belly, and he realized he was still hard too. His breathing became short, heated, as he palmed Steve’s length and Steve gasped his name in a moan.

“Do you…” Bucky licked his lips, looked into Steve’s eyes to find his cheeks flushed, gaze hooded. It gave Bucky the courage to say, “I want.” He didn’t know what exactly he wanted, except for, “Everything. Anything. I want.”

Steve’s smile was slow and voracious, promising pillaging and plundering, if granted permission. “You’ll tell me if anything bothers you, if you change your mind?”

“Yes. Promise,” he added before Steve could ask. “Less fretting, more touching.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve arched a cheeky brow before kissing him tender and hungry until Bucky didn’t know what century they were in.

He then proceeded to kiss Bucky’s cheekbones, his temples, his forehead. Steve’s long fingers painted caresses over Bucky’s body, soft and light, even over his metal arm, always careful to avoid the symbols.

When Steve followed the path of his fingers with his mouth, worshiping Bucky’s skin with his lips, licking, sucking, biting, Bucky stopped being Bucky. He dissolved in pleasure and joy, turned into a galaxy of bright stars.

“Steve,” he murmured, carding his silky blond hair.

“I’ve missed you so much, Buck.” Steve closed his eyes as his breath whispered the words over Bucky’s belly. He arched into Bucky’s touch, nuzzled the soft skin of his waist. “I thought I’d lost you, and I was lost, too.” Tears escaped his closed eyes and he pressed his face against Bucky, trying to hide.

“I’m here,” Bucky murmured, feeling his heart lurch, crack. He pulled until Steve loomed above him and he could hug him. “It’s okay. We’re here.”

Steve cradled him with infinite tenderness, as if Bucky were precious to him. Bucky’s body had been made a weapon, a living nightmare called upon to bring forth death and suffering. But for Steve, Bucky felt as if he could be something other than a monster. For Steve, he could be home, refuge, shelter. He would put himself between Steve and the world and protect him, keep him safe.

Suddenly a wave of need crashed over Bucky, undeniable, inescapable. Need to have Steve inside him, being part of him. To be one with Steve, give him all that he was and hide nothing.

“I want you to fuck me,” he found himself murmuring in Steve’s ear as his cock twitched and leaked, blistering heat burning on his lower belly.

“Are you sure?” Steve turned to him, eyes darkened to cobalt, smile wicked, a deep blush high on his cheeks.

“Yes.” Bucky licked a stripe up Steve’s neck and sank his teeth on his earlobe. “Fuck me, Steve.”

Steve shuddered before grasping Bucky’s hands and stretching his arms above his head, pinning him, a question on his eyes.

“Yes,” Bucky moaned, breathless, arching up. _A thousand times yes_ , his blood sang, drunk with lust. He surrendered, and Steve brought their interlaced hands to rest near Bucky’s head, right by his ears.

Using some sort of sorcery, Bucky was sure, Steve produced lube and proceeded to slowly take Bucky apart, teasing and massaging and rubbing until he could press a finger inside him. One finger. Two. Slow and sure and slick, in and out. Three. Bucky was a mess of need, leaking copiously, losing his mind, begging Steve to fuck him.

Finally, after Bucky’s ability to speak was long lost, when he was burning white hot, his desire so sharp it was almost pain, Steve pushed Bucky’s knees apart and stretched over him, eyes intent on Bucky’s face.

It was nothing short of a revelation when he took Steve inside himself, flesh against flesh, opening as Steve entered him, Bucky’s body made pliant and wanting and soft to receive Steve, hold him beloved and alive.

Steve surged into him. Again, and again, and again, inexorable like the ocean, like the rising tide. His face hidden in the crook of Bucky’s neck, nose sliding over the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, panting softly, their fingers interlaced, locked, hands resting near Bucky’s head. Steve rolled his hips into him like crashing waves, eyes closed, eyelashes brushing delicately his skin, murmuring, “I love you, I love you, I’ve missed you so much, Buck. _”_

 _I love you_. But he couldn’t say it. And Bucky wanted to cry, but didn’t. He gripped Steve’s hands tighter, turned his head to the side, nuzzling his temple, cradling Steve with his body, his soul, everything that he was. Pain and scars and this all-consuming love that nothing, _nothing_ had ever been able to erase, this inextinguishable flame living inside his soul and his bones.

“Yes, please, _yes_ ,” Bucky panted into Steve’s ear, rolling his hips up to meet his thrusts.

Steve turned his head, licking a fiery, shivery line up Bucky’s neck to his jaw, to murmur, “Yeah?” He never stopped, but the grinding became more insistent, barely leaving Bucky’s body before going back inside. “Like this?” He rutted into Bucky, merciless, licking the shell of his ear, sucking on the soft spot behind it, etching his quiet words into Bucky’s skin. “Do you like it, having me inside you? Fucking you, making you mine?”

“Yours,” Bucky gasped like a promise, like a vow. “Yes. _Steve_.”

“Mine,” Steve snarled and oh Gods that was the hottest thing, Steve feral and calling him _mine_. “My Bucky.” He stilled, his cock buried to the hilt inside Bucky, grinding over and over with small circles of his hips, pressing over Bucky’s prostate and making him groan and whimper. Steve’s next words were interspersed with open mouthed kisses to Bucky’s lips. “Do you feel that? My cock inside you? We’re one, Buck. I’m literally inside you and there’s where I belong.”

Bucky made an animal sound and came, his orgasm ripped from him by Steve’s words. Steve started fucking into him again, deeply, making Bucky hungry and desperate and a little bit delirious.

“Yeah, that’s it, give it to me,” Steve growled, biting Bucky’s shoulder. “I will make you come again and again and again, until the only thing you remember is that you belong to me and I belong to you. Until the only thing you know is pleasure.” With every word, his thrusts sped up, his voice becoming hoarse and his grip rough. “Mine, mine, _my_ Bucky—” With a final, brutal thrust, he came inside Bucky with a roar.

“ _Yes._ ” Bucky burned brighter and his cock released another spurt as Steve shuddered and trembled over him. He pulled Steve closer, impossibly closer, clasping him with his whole body, banishing any space between them until Steve sagged, boneless.

“Holy fuck,” was all that Bucky managed, strangled.

“Accurate.” Steve was laughing now, Bucky couldn’t see because his eyes were closed but it was there, in his voice. He dragged his eyes open, he wanted to see. Steve happy was a precious thing.

And it was breathtaking, Steve’s smile, his eyes alight, his parted lips shiny and bitten, joy curling the mouth that had breathed his soft moans, murmured his tender dirty talk.

Bucky’s love for his extraordinary, fierce, sweet man, rose up in his chest and threatened to...Bucky didn’t know what, but it felt enormous and terrifying. Like he didn’t have enough space in his chest for these feelings, and it would crack his ribs open to escape into the world.

“Steve,” Bucky choked out.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Steve let go of his hands to hug him, snaking his arms under Bucky, cradling his shoulder blades in his palms. His lips found Bucky’s, kissing him like dawn kissed the day, sweet and slow and new.

Bucky sighed into the kiss, his arms holding Steve with infinite tenderness. He threaded his fingers into the fine golden hairs at Steve’s nape, letting his metal hand guard Steve’s spine, the slight curve of his waist.

 _I love you_. He couldn’t say the words, but he could say, “So much, Steve. Forever.” And clasp him tightly, and kiss his temple.

“I know, Buck. Me too,” Steve whispered, breathing quietly, leaning his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

There was nothing left in Bucky untouched by Steve’s light. He knew the darkest spaces, the abandoned places of his soul wouldn’t stay alight for long.

But for now, in Steve’s arms, Bucky was made of stars and nascent galaxies.

*

They needed a shower and a change of sheets before they could go to sleep.

After they remade the bed, Steve herded a grumbling Bucky to the bathroom. He wasn’t expecting it, but Bucky asked Steve to get in the shower with him.

“We’ll be done faster,” Bucky said, looking down, concealing his adorable blush behind his hair.

Not bothering to hide his smile, Steve said, “Of course, Buck,” and followed him in.

The shower was massive. It could accommodate four normal persons or two supersoldiers very comfortably, but as soon as Steve stepped in, Bucky plastered himself to Steve, encircling his waist with his strong arms.

Still looking down, Bucky asked shyly, “Will you wash my hair?”

Oh. Steve almost melted on the spot. “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” he murmured, reaching for the herbal shampoo Bucky favored.

Bucky huffed and tilted his head, revealing a smirk. “Not even if I get on my knees and suck your dick?”

Boy, did Steve’s cock hardened when he pictured it. But.

“Honestly? I don’t know, Buck.” He directed the hot spray to Bucky’s hair, careful not to cause him any discomfort, and proceeded to apply the shampoo, massaging Bucky’s scalp, washing his hair with the care and devotion Bucky deserved. “As much as I’d love to see you on your knees, _this_ feels amazing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, voice slow and sweet like molasses. “It does.”

Steve was high as a kite on happiness. All he wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to make Bucky happy, take care of him. Love him. The invisible barrier keeping Bucky away from Steve seemed to have broken, and Steve couldn’t get enough of sweet Bucky clinging to him, asking for what he wanted, allowing Steve to take care of him.

Steve fell into an almost meditative trance while he washed Bucky’s hair, first with shampoo and then conditioner. Before he rinsed the conditioner, Steve took the fragrant bar of artisanal soap he’d bought because it smelled of fresh, green things, and asked, “May I—”

“Yes,” Bucky said, eyes huge and mouth slightly parted. “Please. I…I’ve never had that. Someone to care for me. Here.” He looked down.

In the shower.

Steve swallowed hard. He wouldn’t allow bad memories or rage to taint this moment. They were here, together. He’d give Bucky new memories, so many good moments he’d never have to remember anything else, if he didn’t want to.

Clasping the back of Bucky’s head, he kissed his forehead and then his lips, gently. “You have me now, Buck. Always. I’ll always take care of you.”

And he would. He was done with saving the world, done with anything that wasn’t Bucky and making Bucky happy. Steve was tired. He’d given his pound of flesh and then some. He belonged to Bucky, and he was going to stay by Bucky’s side.

Clarity struck him, sudden and sharp. He was done. Done being Captain America, done fighting for the world, taking orders, taking crap. The thought made him giddy. He was free. There were still things they needed to solve, trouble on the horizon, but once that was behind them…He wouldn’t go back.

Bucky had set him free.

“I love you,” Steve said, smiling.

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky said, smiling back that adorable shy smile.

“Always.” He lathered his hands and started washing Bucky’s skin reverently, enjoying the slide of his hands over hard muscle, the way Bucky relaxed under his fingers, sighing.

Once he finished washing Bucky and had rinsed his hair, Bucky insisted on returning the favor. Bucky washed him with sure, gentle hands, smiling a pleased smile the entire time, awe in his expression and the way his fingertips danced over Steve’s skin.

This shared shower entered Steve’s list of transcendental experiences. He hoped they would do it often, again and again, every day.

After they dried each other with Steve’s big, fluffy towels, they put on their soft pajamas—Bucky wearing the clothes Steve had bought him was such a rush, Steve was drunk on it—and went back to the bedroom.

Steve didn’t know if he was surprised or not when Bucky climbed into his bed without being asked, without protest. Steve didn’t know and didn’t care a flying fuck. All that mattered was Bucky in his bed—hopefully _their_ bed from now on. He nosedived after Bucky, not wanting to waste even a single second of happy Bucky sharing a bed with him.

And promptly almost expired of joy when Bucky immediately snuggled up to him, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, tracing spirals and sloped lines on Steve’s chest with his metal fingers.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Buck.” He kissed the top of Bucky’s head, cradling him gently to his body. “I’m so happy I got you back.”

“Likewise,” Bucky sighed and tangled their legs together, hand stilling on the curve of Steve’s waist. “Thank you for coming for me, Steve. For taking me back,” he murmured.

As if there was any Universe where Steve would have done otherwise, wanted anything else. “Always, Buck. I’ll always come back for you.”

They fell asleep like that, entwined in another, as they were meant to be.

*

The day dawned brighter than all the others Steve remembered. He woke up made of light, cradling the most precious star in his arms.

The miracle of Bucky alive, asleep, warm, close, hit him like a freight train, broke him into a million pieces and put him back together, stronger than before. Stronger because he was Bucky’s fighter. He’d fight for him, protect him.

Stronger because Bucky loved him. Steve didn’t need to hear the words. He knew it, he could see it in Bucky’s eyes, feel it in the threads knotted around his heart.

“Bucky, my Bucky,” he whispered softly, watching Bucky sleep. “Love you.”

“Alright,” Bucky grumbled, not bothering to move or open his eyes. “Lemme sleep.”

Steve’s brows jumped up as he pressed his mouth closed, lips between his teeth to keep his startled laughter inside. Taking a deep breath, he filled himself with Bucky’s scent before murmuring, “Sleep. I’m gonna make breakfast.”

When he moved to disentangle himself, however, Bucky gripped his wrist and turned away, pulling Steve to spoon him. “No. Sleep.”

How could Steve resist an order like that. He pulled the covers up, over both of them, and snuggled closer to Bucky’s back, burying his face on Bucky’s luscious hair. He’d just stay there, warm and easy, enjoying Bucky’s presence, waiting for him to wake up.

A minute later he was asleep again, cradling his slumbering soul to his chest.

*

When they woke up, the sun was already high in the sky, and Bucky was as grumpy as ever.

He was adorable, grumbling and muttering under the covers when Steve insisted on getting up to cook breakfast.

“Bring coffee,” he mumbled, eyes closed, hair a tangled mess all over his pillow.

Steve prepared a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, crusty bread, bowls of sliced fruit topped with yogurt, and orange juice, not forgetting the requested coffee. He arranged everything they’d need on a big tray and took it to the bedroom, as pleased for bringing Bucky breakfast in bed as he’d been with his biggest, most important missions.

Still grumbling, Bucky sat up, arranging pillows behind him to lean comfortably against the wall. Steve sat beside him and brought the tray closer, so they could enjoy their breakfast and watch through the window the forest beyond the porch.

“Coffee?” Bucky asked hopefully.

“Here,” Steve said as he delivered the big mug he’d prepared as Bucky liked it—with lots and lots of sugar and a dash of milk.

“Thank you.” The smile he gave was grumpy somehow, and Steve’s heart melted. “This is good coffee,” Bucky admitted, after taking several big sips and sighing.

“Only the best for my best guy.” His words made Bucky’s smile less grumpy, more tender, and Steve felt him pulling at the invisible thread that connected them. “I’m so glad you’re home, Buck.”

Bucky let go of the mug to clasp Steve’s hand, lean towards Steve and give him a kiss, light and lingering and sweet.

“Me too,” Bucky said after the kiss ended. His eyes were full of wonder and disbelief and hope.

Steve would burn the world down to ashes to keep Bucky’s gaze illuminated by hope like that. To keep him happy and safe, having breakfast in bed and being grumpy, drinking coffee with lots of sugar and a dash of milk, any time he wanted.

*

Home.

Bucky had wanted to go home for so long. Since he’d remembered he hadn’t been created in the Nothing. All he’d wanted was to go home, to know what being home was like. But he’d soon discovered his home had been gone for a long time, crumbled to dust along with everything else from Before.

Except for Steve.

Steve was his home.

Bucky was finally home.

They had shared a home before, Steve had told him. Bucky wished he remembered, but all he could find were patches, torn slivers, fading shadows that vanished between his grasping fingers.

After killing so many times, dying so many times, he knew what mattered. What we had every day, what we took with us in the end, were the things we remembered. Moments. Memories. The rest didn’t exist.

But he didn’t remember. And if he’d forgotten so much about Steve, about their past, about himself…did any of those things really happen?

Maybe Steve had saved them, saved those precious things, drops of sunshine and waves of moonlight, glimpses of glistening skin, secret smiles and entwined fingers. Maybe Steve had rescued those jewels from the devouring oblivion.

Maybe someday he’d share that treasure with Bucky.

There would be time to ask Steve to tell him stories about them. Later, tomorrow, down the road and the years he could now see unfolding under their steps.

Forward, away, towards nebulous danger that waited for them in the distance, their paths inexorably tied together, entwined and weaved in light and shadows, flesh and bones.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 💛
> 
> As you can probably tell, there’s more story coming. There’s Sam and Riley, the tendrils and the handler, the voices, and even what being a soul collector may mean to Bucky. I have so many things to explore and share with you.
> 
> This is the first part of a series. I’m going to take a break of writing plot stuff (a good chunk of the next part is already written), but rest assured we’ll be coming back to this universe next year.
> 
> ******
> 
> Wow, this has been amazing.
> 
> This bang change my life, made everything better and more bearable in a year when everything went to hell for everyone, and I had some really challenging crap of my own to go through.
> 
> I will never be able to express adequately how grateful I am.
> 
> I will try, but for now: thank you forever to the mods for bringing this community to life and being amazing.
> 
> Thank you to my artists and betas: [leathermouthed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/pseuds/leathermouthed), [norsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie), [theemdash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theemdash/pseuds/theemdash), [E_Greer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Greer/pseuds/E_Greer) and [Meta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/need_more_meta/pseuds/need_more_meta). I wouldn’t be here today without you.
> 
> Thank you to my fellow nasbbers, writers and artists, betas and sensitivity readers. It wouldn’t have been the same if you hadn’t been there.
> 
> Much love to all. 💗
> 
> ******
> 
> Comments, kudos and all manner of screams, keyboard smashes and emojis are very much appreciated! 🙂
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Nospheratt)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] The Light In The Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840688) by [norsellie (flamewarrior)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie)




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